There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, 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 every 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 enroll.

Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That HE who stills the ravens clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 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 lov'd at home, rever'd 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 refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 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-lov'd Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted
heart;

Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
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!

C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer, 103, Goswell street.

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

ROBERT BURNS.

COLLATED WITH THE BEST EDITIONS:

BY

THOMAS PARK, ES2. F.S. A.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

Printed at the Stanhope Press,

BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM,
103, Goswell Street;

FOR J. SHARPE; AND SOLD BY W. SUTTABY,
STATIONERS' COURT, LUDGATE STREET.