Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, Devotion's every grace except the heart! [soul; May hear, well pleased, the language of the And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way; For them and for their little ones provide; 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! Oh Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may the hardy sons of rustic toil [content! Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet And oh, 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, Oh Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide [heart; Or nobly die the second glorious part But still the patriot and the patriot bard, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's not thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 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, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, To mis'ry's brink, Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight TO J. S**** SOME rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme to court the kintra clash, An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; Has bless'd me wi' a random shot O' kintra wit. This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, Something cries "Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. "There's ither poets, much your betters, Now moths deform, in shapeless tetters, Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless heed Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, Forgot and gone! But why o' death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound and hale, Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave care o'er side! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted, fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu' light. The magic wand then let us wield; Wi' wrinkled face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, Wi' crepin pace. When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, An' social noise; An' fareweel dear, deluding woman, Oh, life! how pleasant is thy morning, Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning, We wander there, we wander here, Among the leaves; And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flowery spot, For which they never toil'd nor swat; |