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Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Then homeward all take off their several Or other holy seers that tune the sacred
The youngling cottagers retire to rest :
The parent-pair their secret homage pay: Perhaps the Christian volume is the
And proffer up to Heaven the warm theme,
request, How guiltless blood for guilty man was That He, who stills the raven's clamorous shed;
nest, How He, who bore in Heaven the And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, second name,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the Had not on earth whereon to lay His
For them, and for their little ones proHow His first followers and servants
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace The precepts sage they wrote to many a divine preside.
land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, From scenes like these old Scotia's Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;
grandeur springs, And heard great Babylon's doom pro- That makes her loved at home, revered nounced by Heaven's command.
Princes and lords are but the breath of Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eter- kings; nal King,
“ An honest man's the noblest work of The saint, the father, and the husband
God: prays :
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly Hope "springs exulting on triumphant
The cottage leaves the palace far behind; That thus they all shall meet in future What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous days :
load, There ever bask in uncreated rays, Disguising oft the wretch of human No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
kind, Together hymning their Creator's praise, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness In such society, yet still more dear;
refined! While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil !
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven Compared with this, how poor Religion's
is sent! pride,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil In all the pomp of method, and of art,
Be blest with health, and peace, and When men display to congregations
sweet content ! wide
And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives Devotion's every grace, except the heart !
prevent The Power, incensed, the pageant will
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! desert,
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be The pompous strain, the sacerdotal
A virtuous populace may rise the while, But haply, in some cottage far apart,
And stand a wall of fire around their May hear, well pleased, the language of
much-loved Isle. the soul; And in His book of life the inmates
O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide
That streamed thro’ Wallace's undaunted 1 Pope's Windsor Forest. — R. B.
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, FAREWELL TO NANCY.
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
thee! But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. In bright succession raise, her ornament Who shall say that fortune grieves him, and guard!
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;
Makes woodland echoes ring;
Sings drowsy day to rest :
In love and freedom they rejoice, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Now blooms the lily by the bank,
Wi' spreckl'd breast, The primrose down the brae;
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
The purpling east. And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north May rove their sweets amang; Upon thy early, humble birth; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Maun lie in prison strang.
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Thy tender form. Where happy I hae been; Fu’ lightly rase I in the morn,
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, As blythe lay down at e’en: And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun
shield, And monie a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
But thou, beneath the random bield 1
O'clod, or stane, And never ending care.
Adorns the histie 2 stibble-field,
Upon thy fortune shine;
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise; Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies! friend Remember him for me!
Such is the fate of artless Maid, Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! Nae mair light up the morn!
By love's simplicity betray'd, Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
And guileless trust, Wave o'er the yellow corn!
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid And in the narrow house o' death
Low i' the dust. Let winter round me rave; And the next flowers that deck the Such is the fate of simple Bard, spring
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Bloom on my peaceful grave !
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er!
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
By human pride or cunning driv'n Thou's met me in an evil hour;
To mis'ry's brink, For I maun crush amang the stoure Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Thy slender stem:
He, ruin'd, sink! To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld !
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!
But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,?
Gang aft a-gley, 3
For promised joy.
TO A MOUSE,
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE
PLOUGH IN NOVEMBER.
Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
On prospects drear !
I guess an' fear.
THE BARD'S EPITAPH.
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle !1
Wi' murdering pattle ! 3
Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie,thou maun live! A daimen-icker 4 in a thrave 5
'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
And never miss't.
O’ foggage green!
Baith snell7 an' keen !
Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter pass'd
Out ihru' thy cell.
But house or hald,
Is there a Bard of rustic song,
O, pass not by!
Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career
Wild as the wave; Here pause — and, thro’the starting tear
Survey this grave.
The poor Inhabitant below
And softer flame;
And stain'd his name!
3 plough staff. 4 ear of corn. twenty-four sheaves. 6 the rest.
1 hoar frost.
2 thyself aione.
My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that;
Shall brother be for a' that.