Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 400 Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 405 410 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 415 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 420 425 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, While self-dependent power can time defy, 430 BURNS. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! 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 Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly speirs: 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. 30 35 40 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. 45 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' 55 But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 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, 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. 60 65 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 70 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- 75 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale 80 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart- 85 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild! 90 But now the supper crowns their simple board, The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallen snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 95 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 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; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 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 Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 140 115 |