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“The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"*

The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear

Then all the pride of May:
The tempest's howl, it soothes


soul, My griefs it seems to join, The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!


Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy Will!
Then all I want (0, do thou grant

This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign.


# Dr. Young





Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short but simple annals of the poor.




My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!

No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:


To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;

What A**** in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there,

I ween!


November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The short’ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;

The black’ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour

goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame

ward bend.



At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro'

Tomeet their Dad, wi'flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily,

Hisclean hearth-stane, his thriftiewifie'ssmile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.

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Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun’;

' Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin

A cannie errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in here'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.


Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet,

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic'd fleet;

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;

, Anticipation forward points the view. 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, The younkers a' are warned to obey;


An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,

An' ne'er, tho' out oʻsight, to jauk or play: • An’O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!

* 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


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But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor,

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his

name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd, the mother hears its nae wild,

worthless rake,


Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth; he taks 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.


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