The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a bra' new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view: The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Garsauld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey ;
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play;
"An' O, be sure to fear the Lord alway!

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' 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, hark! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor,

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; Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his

name,

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth; he taks the mother's e'e; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave;

Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected like the lave.

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-hained kebbuck fell, An' aft he 's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 't was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' suppet done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare : Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, And "Let us worship God!" he says with solemn He wales a portion with judicious care;

air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps "Dundee's" wild-warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin " beets the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they 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 groaning 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 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 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,

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And, O, may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,

isle.

And in the hush of rest they bring
'T is easy now to see
How lovely and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be.

To close the eye, and close the ear, Wrapped in a trance of bliss, And gently dream in loving arms To swoon to that from this.

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are,
To feel all evil sink away,

All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still,
Press nearer to our side,
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught, A dried and vanished stream;

Your joy be the reality,

Our suffering life the dream.

IN the still air the music lies unheard;

In the rough marble beauty hides unseen: To make the music and the beauty, needs

The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.
Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand;
Let not the music that is in us die!
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let,
Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!

Spare not the stroke! do with us as thou wilt!
Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred;
Complete thy purpose, that we may become
Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord!

HORATIUS BONAR.