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.

XIII.
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 Martyr's, worthy of the name ; Or noble Elgin beets (6) the heaven-ward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; Mae unison hae(7) they with our Creator's praiše.

XIV.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,

How Abram was the Friend of God on high ;
Or, Moses bad(8) 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.

(1) Hall-Bible. (2) Once. (3) Of a mixed color, gray. (4) The temples, the sides of the head. (5) Chooses.

Adds fuel to the fire. (7) Have. (8) Did bid.

XV.
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 heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Hear

en's coinmand.

XVI. 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;
While circling time moves round in an eternal 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 enrol.

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 thein and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

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,

66 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 bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, 0! 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.

XXI. o Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd through Wallace's andaunted 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 !

VAN WAS MADE TO MOURN:

A DIRGE.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

I.
WHEN chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair,

II.
Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?

(Began the reverend sage ;)
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage ?
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

III.
The sun that overhangs yon moor,

Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride ;
I've seen yon weary

winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.

IV.
O inan! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time!
Mispending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway:

Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives nature's law,

That man was made to mourn.

V.
Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might :
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right.
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, Oh ! ill-match'd pair !
Show man was made to mourn,

VI. A few seem favorites of fate,

In pleasure's lap caress'd;