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,

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;

sphere.

XVII.

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 poor enroll.

XVIII.

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 ; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine pre

side.

XIX.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur

springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God!” 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!

XX.

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, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle.

GLORY to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, O, keep me, King of kings,
Beneath thy own almighty wings!
Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,
The ill that I this day have done;
That with the world, myself, and thee
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.

Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed;
To die, that this vile body may
Rise glorious at the judgment-day.

FROM ALL THAT DWELL

PSALM CXVII.

FROM all that dwell below the skies
Let the Creator's praise arise;
Let the Redeemer's name be sung
Through every land, by every tongue.

Eternal are thy mercies, Lord,
Eternal truth attends thy word;

Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore,
Till suns shall rise and set no more.

ISAAC WATTS,