XIV.

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 Heav'n'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.

XV.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for lty 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,

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.

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Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's com

mand.

XVII.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!

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The Pow`r, 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 the book of life the inmates poor enrol.

XVIII.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 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 clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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 preside.

XIX.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her loved at home, rever'd 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 refin'd!

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, 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-lov'd isle.

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XXI.

O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide

That stream'd thro' 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!

TO A MOUSE.

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
NOVEMBER, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

IC

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush among the stoure
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast,
When upward-springing, blithe to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies.

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