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FROM "THE PARISH REGISTER."

246. AN ENGLISH PEASANT.

To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace:
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed and gentleness he loved:
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none :
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,
To miss one favor which their neighbors find):
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved:

I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbor for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few :
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,

In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained;

Pride in the Power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied,
In fact a noble passion, misnamed pride.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks, thinly spread

Round the bald polish of that honored head;
Nor more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers all in dread the while,
Till Master Ashford softened to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it forth), are there;
But he is blessed, and I lament no more,

A wise good man, contented to be poor.

ROBERT BURNS. 1759-1796. (Manual, p. 366.) 247. To MARY IN HEAVEN.

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast.

That sacred hour can I forget?

Can I forget the hallowed grove,

Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace!

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods thickening green:

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingéd day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

248. JOHN ANderson.

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. But we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

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Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do or die!

250. THE BANKS O' DOON.

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair!
'How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds't me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wistna' o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

251. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The shortening winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae1 the pleugh;
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil 2 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.

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Th' expectant wee things, toddlin,* stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flicterin" noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle,” blinkin ® bonnily,

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a'' his weary carking 10 cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.

Belyve" the elder bairns come drappin in,

At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' 12 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 13 rin
A cannie 14 errand to a neebor town:

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

15

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won 16 penny-fee,17

18

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 19 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 20 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;

The father mixes a' with admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent 21 hand,
An' 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 neebor lad cam' o' 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;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins 22 is afraid to speak;

Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake.

8 Little.

4 Tottering in their walk. 6 Stagger. 6 Fluttering. 10 Consuming. 11 By and by. 12 Drive. 13 Cautious. 16 Sorely won. 17 Wages. 18 Asks. 19 News.

7 Fire. 8 Shining at intervals. 9 All.

14

Kindly, dexterous. 15 Fine, handsome. 20 Makes. 21 Diligent. 22 Partly.

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