To me more dear, congenial to my heart
One native charm than all the gloss of art!

I earnestly advise all students of poetry and philosophy to read at one sitting The Deserted Village, in connection with

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

My loved, my honored, 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 sequestered scene,
The native feeling strong, the guileless ways
What Aiken in a cottage would have been

Although his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.

November chill blows loud with angry sigh,
The shortening winter-day is near a close,
The miry beasts returning from the plough,
The blackening train of crows to their repose,
The toil-worn cotter from his labor goes,
This night, his weekly work is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattox and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And homeward o'er the moor his course does bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree,

The expectant children, toddling, stagger through
To meet their Dad with fluttering noise and glee,
His little cot fire, blinking bonnily,

And his clean hearth-stone, thrifty wife with smile,
The lisping infant pratling on his knee

Now all his weary, carking cares beguile
And makes him quite forget his pains and toil.

By and by the elder children come dropping in
At service out among the farmers round,

Some hold the plough, some herd, some heed and run
A dexterous errand to some neighboring town;
Their oldest hope, their Jennie, woman grown,
In youthful bloom, love sparkling in her eye
Comes home perhaps to show a bran new gown
Or deposit her hard won penny-fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for others' welfare kindly ask,
The social hours swift winged unnoticed fleet,
Each tells the news that he sees or hears,
The parents partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view,
The mother with her needle and her shears,
Makes old clothes look almost as well as new,
The father mixes well with wisdom due.

The master's and their mistress's command
The youngsters are warned to obey,
And mind their labor with a willing hand
And not though out of sight, trifle or play,
And, O, be sure to fear the Lord alway!
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night,
Lest in temptation's path ye go astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might
They never seek in vain that sought the right!

But hark! a rap comes gently at the door,
Jennie well knows the meaning of the same,
Tells how a neighbor lad came o'er the moor
To do some errands and convey her home;
The wiley mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkling in Jennie's eye and flush her cheek;

With heart struck, anxious care, inquires his name
While Jennie, partly, is afraid to speak,

Well pleased, the mother hears it's no wild rake.

With kindly welcome Jennie brings him in,
A strapping youth; he takes the mother's eye,
Blithe Jennie sees the visitor will win,

The father talks of horses, ploughs and cows,
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows with joy,
But very bashful scarce can well behave;
The mother with a woman's wiles can spy
What makes the youth so bashful and so grave
Pleased to think her child respected like the rest.

O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I have paced this weary mortal round,
And sage experience bid me this declare-

"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
"One cordial in this melancholy vale,

"Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair "In loving arms breathe out the tender tale

“Beneath the milk white thorn that scents the 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 Jennie's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his purjured 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 oatmeal pudding, chief of Scotia's food,
The milk their only cow, will now afford,
Beyond the cottage wall, snugly chews her cud,
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To urge the lad her well seasoned cheese to taste,
And oft he's pressed, and oft he calls it good,

The frugal wife, then garrulous will tell

'Twas twelve months old, since flax was in the bell."

The cheerful supper done with serious face,
They round the fire form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace,
The big hall Bible, once his father's pride,
His bonnet is reverently laid aside,

And with gray head wearing thin and bare
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He reads 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,
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measure raise
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin greets the heavenly flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays;
Compared with these Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise-
No unison 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 groan and 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 guileless 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 servant spread

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land,
How John, alone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

And heard great Babylon's doom 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,"
And thus they all shall meet in future days,
There ever bask in God created rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear,

While 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
Devotions glaring grace, except the heart!
And God 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,
And in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
And makes her loved at home, revered abroad;
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,