THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. "Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; The short but simple annals of the poor." — GRAY. My loved, my honored, much-respected friend, To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, The blackening trains o' craws to their repose; The toilworn cotter frae his labor 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, Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 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, A cannie errand to a neibor town; 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, Gars auld 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. O happy love! where love like this is found! In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 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 Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Points to the parents fondling o'er their Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; The soupe their only hawkie* does afford, That 'yout 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' supper done, wi' serious face, His lyart haffets || wearing thin an' 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. 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 : Then homeward all take off their several way; For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 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 humankind, 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, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide, That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O, never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot and the patriot bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! ROBERT BURNS. THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART 1. HE was of that stubborn crew And prove their doctrine orthodox As if they worshipped God for spite; SAMUEL BUTLER. THE FAITHFUL ANGEL. THE seraph Abdiel, faithful found Among the faithless, faithful only he; Among innumerable false, unmoved, Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long. The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills, And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills. The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox, The wild boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks, And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie ; And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die. And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more, And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore ; And the great globe itself, so the holy writings tell, With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell, Shall melt with fervent heat, they shall all pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. From the Provençal of BERNARD RASCAS. Translation of WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE MASTER'S TOUCH. IN the still air the music lies unheard; The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand; DIFFERENT MINDS. SOME murmur when their sky is clear And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue ; And some with thankful love are filled If but one streak of light, One ray of God's good mercy, gild The darkness of their night. In palaces are hearts that ask, And all good things denied ; RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. CANA. DEAR Friend! whose presence in the house, Could once, at Cana's wedding feast, Come, visit us! and when dull work Life's water turned to wine. Gay mirth shall deepen into joy, Earth's hopes grow half divine, When Jesus visits us, to make Life's water glow as wine. The social talk, the evening fire, The homely household shrine, Grow bright with angel visits, when The Lord pours out the wine. For when self-seeking turns to love, JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE O World, thou choosest not the better part! And on the inward vision close the eyes, GEORGE SANTAYANA.. |