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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 : 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 spherc.

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 enrol.

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 i

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 !

* Pope's Windsor Forest.

And oh ! 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 isle.

O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart, 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 !),
Oh, never, never Scotia's realm desert ;

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !

- ROBERT BURNS.

THE HUSBAND'S RETURN.
AND are ye sure the news is true ?

And are ye sure he's weel ?
Is this a time to talk o'wark?

Mak haste, set by your wheel.
Is this a time to talk o'wark,

When Colin's at the door ?
Gie me my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava;
There's little pleasure in the house,

When our go nan's awa.

Rise up and mak a clean fireside,

Put on the mickle pot ;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday's coat :
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain goodman,
For he's been lang awa.

For there's nae luck, &c.

There are twa hens upon the bauk,

Have fed this month and mair,
Mak haste, and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare :

And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw; It's a' for love of my goodman, For he's been lang awa.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Oh, gie me down my bigonet,

My bishop-satin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife,

That Colin's come to town.
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearl blue,
It's a' to please my ain goodman,
For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speech,

His breath's like caller air, His very foot has music in't,

When he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought;
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

The cauld blasts of the winter wind,

That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe ;

Till death we'll never part :
But what puts parting in my head ?

It may be far awa :
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave';
Could I but live to mak him blest,

I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought;
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.*
WHEN a'ither bairnies are hushed to their hame,
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly forfairn ?
'Tis the puir dowie laddie--the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn!
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair !
But morning brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
The sister wha sang o'er his saftly rocked bed,
Now rests in the mools where their mammy is laid ;
While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that passed in yon hour of his birth,
Still watches his lone lorn wanderings on earth,
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
Oh! speak him na harshly—he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile :
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn,
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn !

-WILLIAM THOM.

TO MY MOTHER. O THOU whose care sustained

my

infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love ;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay:
Oh say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would ve throbbed like thine for me
Who would have smiled responsive?--who in grief
Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieve like thee?

* Motherless child.

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep, or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?
None but a mother-none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch,
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom ;
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
Oh, then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.

-DAVIDSON, AN AMERICAN POET.

THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.* You took me, William, when a girl, unto your home and heart, To bear in all your after-fate a fond and faithful part; And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego, Or pined there was not joy for me when you were sunk in woe? No; I would rather share your tear than any other's glee, For though you're nothing to the world, you're ALL THE WORLD TO

ME.

You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn bench a throne ;
There's sunlight for me in your smiles, and music in your tone.
I look upon you when you sleep-my eyes with tears grow dim,
I cry, 'O Parent of the poor, look down from heaven on him;
Behold him toil from day to day, exhausting strength and soul;
Oh, look with mercy on him, Lord, for Thou canst make him whole!'
And when at last relieving sleep has on my eyelids smiled,
How oft are they forbade to close in slumber by our child ?
I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of rest,
And feel it is a part of thee I lull upon my breast.
There's only one return I crave, I may not need it long,
And it may soothe thee when I'm where the wretched feel no wrong:

• The above admirable lines, we understand, originally appeared in the Monthly Repository for May 1834, under the signature of M. L. G.

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