Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame, The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 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 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. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 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, 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. VOL. II.I Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, [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; The yougling 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 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! 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 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 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. 8**** 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; But in requit, 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, |