Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed-
Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind
To miss one favour which their neighbours find-
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved :
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried ;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few :
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours trained ;
Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride.

He had no party's rage, no sect’ry's whim,
Christian and countryman was all with him;
True to his church he came; no Sunday shower
Kept him at home in that important hour;

a

Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect
By the strong glare of their new light direct;
"On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze,
But should be blind and lose it in your blaze !"

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain
Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain,
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,
And feel in that his comfort and his pride.

At length he found, when seventy years were run, His strength departed and his labour done; When, save his honest fame, he kept no more, But lost his wife and saw his children poor ; 'Twas then a spark of-say not, discontentStruck on his mind—and thus he gave it vent:

“Kind are your laws—’tis not to be denied-
That in yon house for ruined age provide,
And they are just; when young, we give you all,
And then for comforts in our weakness call.
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your poor and eat the parish bread ?
But yet I linger, loath with him to feed
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need;
He who, by contract, all your paupers took,
And
gauges

stomachs with an anxious look:
On some old master I could well depend ;
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend ;
But ill on him who doles the day's supply,
And counts our chances who at night may die :
Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not complain
Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain!”

:

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating fra' the pleugh;

The black’ning train 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 hameward

bend,

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

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

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

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

a

Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin' 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 sparklin' in her e'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.

With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet,

And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet;

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

Anticipation forward points the view : The mother wi' her needle, and her shears,

Gars auld claes look amaist as well's the new; The father mixes a' with admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,

The younkers a' are warned to obey ;
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,

And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk 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 gang astray,

Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.'

But now the supper crowns their simple board,

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; The

soupe their only Hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,

They, round the ingle, form a circle wido; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,

The big ha’-Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; 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.

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,

The saint, the father, and the husband prays; Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”

That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise.

In such society, yet still more dear; Whilo circling 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

Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, 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