Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers;' Their master's and their mistress's command, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Implore His counsel and assisting might: Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. A strappan' youth, he taks the mother's eye; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. But blate 10 an' laithfu'," scarce can weel behave; What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave, I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare,- 'Tis 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,— Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,' Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 6 That 'yonts the hallan snugly chows her cood: To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd' kebbuck, fell, The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond 10 auld,"1 sin 12 lint was i' the bell.13 They round the ingle form a circle wide; His lyart 16 haffets 17 wearin' thin an' bare; 10 Twelve months. 8 Sauce, milk. 4 A pet-name for a cow 7 Carefully preserved. 8 A cheese 11 Old. 12 Since. 13 Flax was in blossom. 9 Biting to the taste. 14 This picture, as all the world knows, he drew from his father. He was himself, in imagination, again one of the "wee things" that ran to meet him; and "the priest-like father" had long worn that aspect before the poet's eyes, though he died before he was threescore. "I have always considered William Burns," (the father,) says Murdoch, “as by far the best of the human race that I ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and many a worthy character I have known. He was a tender and affectionate father, and took pleasure in leading his children in the paths of virtue. I must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of the venerable Burns. I shall only add, that he practised every known duty, and avoided every thing that was criminal." The following is the "Epitaph" which the son wrote for him: O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near, with pious reverence, and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: 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, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 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 parent-pair their secret homage pay, For them and for their little ones provide; From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 9 An island in the Archipelago, where John is supposed to have written the book of Revelation • Priestly vestment. 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! Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's 2 undaunted heart Who dared to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, O never, never, Scotia's realm desert: But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! 1 Certainly. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. When chill November's surly blast I spied a man, whose aged step His face was furrow'd o'er with years, Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, Sir William Wallace, the celebrated Scottish patriot. O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Which tenfold force give Nature's law, Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great But, oh! what crowds, in every land, Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves, And man, whose heaven-erected face Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight, If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power Yet, let not this too much, my son, This partial view of human-kind |