O! thou bright Queen, who o'er th' | Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set! THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. OF AYR. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Gray. My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; This night his weekly moil is at an end, And 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 wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, I'll Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, 'An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love! where love like this is found! And sage experience bids me this declare - 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart- Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild! But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care, And 'Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great. Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! DESPONDENCY. AN ODE. OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with | Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, ply'd, They bring their own reward: Meet ev'ry sad returning night, are |