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The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible,(1) ance (2) his father's pride: His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart(3) haffets (4) wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales(5) a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship GoD!" he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
(1) Hall-Bible. (2) Once. (3) Of a mixed color, gray.
Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme,
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.
Then, kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING;
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise; In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,
Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.
* Pope's Windsor Forest.
Then homeward all take off their several way;
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
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 human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Be bless'd 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 pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart;
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN:
BY ROBERT BURNS.
WHEN chill November's surly blast
I spied a man, whose aged step
Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes,
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The sun that overhangs yon moor,
O inan! while in thy early years,
Mispending all thy precious hours,
But see him on the edge of life,
A few seem favorites of fate,