years, his father had shone before his family in that priestly character which presents Scottish humble life in one of its most beautiful aspects. Robert had begun, some time before the old man's death, to take a part in the family devotions, reading the chapter' and giving out the psalm. After the death of William Burness, it fell to the poet by right of ancient custom, he being the eldest born, to take on himself the whole function of the family-priest, and he conducted the cottage-worship every night when at home during the whole time of his residence at Mossgiel. More than this, his sister and another surviving member of the household speak in the warmest terms of the style of his prayers. The latter individual' states, that he has never since listened to anything equal to these addresses. These facts, it will be admitted, form an interesting prelude to the beautiful poem in which Burns has placed in everlasting remembrance this phase of the rustic life of Scotland. Gilbert Burns gives us an account of what immediately prompted his brother to compose this immortal work. 'He had frequently,' says Gilbert, 'remarked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase "Let us worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family-worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the Cotter's Saturday Night.' It needs only further to be remarked, that the poet found a model in one of the best poems of his predecessor Fergusson, entitled The Farmer's Ingle. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.2 'Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.'-GRAY. My loved, my honoured, much-respected friend! With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! 1 Mr William Ronald, now a farmer in the neighbourhood of Beith, in Ayrshire (1854). 2 ? Probably the first verse and inscription to Mr Aiken were added afterwards. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; repose: Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, And noise weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.' At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. anxiety By and by inquires news The opening verse of The Farmer's Ingle bears a considerable resemblance to this: 'Whan gloamin' gray out-owre the welkin keeks, Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks, What bangs fu' leal the e'ening's coming cauld, jaded-shuts winnowing beats-truly makes frightened Their master's and their mistress's command, And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; To do some errands, and convoy her hame. With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; diligent dally Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth; he taks the mother's eye; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave; bashful-hesitating What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave: Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. other people Oh happy love!-where love like this is found! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, porridge COW porch cheese-biting How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. twelvemonth The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, gray temples Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The priest-like father reads the sacred page- With Amalek's ungracious progeny; How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed: Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; selects And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. 71 Then kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; Then homeward all take off their several way; And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God;' And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp?-a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! Oh Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. 1 Pope's Windsor Forest.-B. |