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“ If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,

One cordial, in this melancholy vale, 'T is 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, –

A wretch! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth !

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction

wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board,

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food ; The soup their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, Το

grace the lad, her weel-hained kehbuck fell, An' aft he 's pressed, an' aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal wifie garrulous will tell, How was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell, The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,

The big ha’-Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet reverently 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




They chant their artless notes in simple guise ;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps “ Dundee's" wild-warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive “ Martyrs,” worthy of the name; Or noble “ Elgin " beats the heavenward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ear no heart-felt raptures raise , Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire, Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ;
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 bore in heaven the second name,

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; How his first followers and servants sped,

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he who lone in Patmos banished

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by

Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King,

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope “ springs exulting on triumphant wing,

That thus they all shall meet in future days ;

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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.

Compared 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, incensed, the pageant will desert,

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, 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 raven's 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 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 !



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 con.

tent! 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-loved


O Thou, who poured the patriotic tide
That streamed through Wallace's undaunted

Who dared 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 !




He that loves a rosie cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires ;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.



But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with

equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.


“LAKE, with lawny banks that slope

To the water's edge,
Softly rustles the wind thro'

Thy long grass and sedge.

66 Thou hadst been a gem of earth

Couched amid these hills,
But some evil water-sprite
Troubles the



6 Whence thy hidden life is drawn.

Why thus fretteth he,
Who should be thy good genie,

Thy tranquillity
Lightly by a ruffling wind

Were the waters pressed,
And a liquid, swaying voice

Issued from their breast.

Be it genie, be it fate,

I know not, - but know
That the waves from yonder stream

Ever turbid flow.

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