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The rustic Bard, the lab'ring hind,

The Artisan ;.
All choose, as various they're inclin'd,

11

The various man.

“When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threatning storm some strongly rein, Some teach to meliorate the plain,

With tillage skill.
And some instruct the shepherd train,

Blithe o'er the hill.

6. Some hint the lover's harmless wile;
Some grace the maiden's artless smile;
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil,

For humble gains,
And make his cottage-scenes beguile

His cares and pains.

“Some, bounded to a district space,
Explore at large man's infant race,
To mark the embryotic trace

Of rustic bard;
And careful note each op’ning grace,

A guide and guard.

6 Of these am I -CoilA my name;
And this district as mine I claim,
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,

Held ruling pow'r :
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame,

Thy natal hour.

“ With future hope I oft would gaze, Fond, on thy little early ways,

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Thy rudely carolld chiming phrase,

In uncouth rhymes,
Fird at the simple, artless lays

Of other times.

“ I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar;
Or, when the North his-fleecy store

Drove thro' the sky,
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar

Struck thy young eye.

“ Or, when the deep-green mantled earth
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'rets birth,
And joy and music pouring forth

In ev'ry grove,
I saw thee eye the gen’ral mirth

With boundless love.

“ When ripen'd fields, and azure skies,
Call'd forth the reapers' rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their evening joys,

And lonely stalk,
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise

In pensive walk.

!

“When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,
Keen-shiv'ring shot thy nerves along,
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,

Th' adored name,
I taught thee how to pour in song,

To soothe thy flame.

“I saw thy pulses madd’ning play,
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way,

Misled by fancy's meteor ray,

By passion drit'n; But yet the light that led astray

Was light from heaven!

I taught thy manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways of simple swains,
Till now, o'er all my wide domains

Thy fame extends :
And some, the pride of Coila's plains,

Become thy friends.

* Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow, Or wake the bosom-melting throe

With Shenstone's art, Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow

Warm on the heart.

« Yet all beneath the unrivall'd rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows;
Tho' large the forests's monarch throws

His army shade,
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,

Adown the glade.

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6 Then never murmur nor repine ;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor king's regard,
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,

A rustic bard!

" To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan.

Preserve the Dignity of Man,

With soul erect;
And trust, the Universal Plan

Will all protect !

" And wear thou this !” she solemn said,
And bound the Holly round my head ;-
The polish'd leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play;
And, like a passing thought, she fled

In light away.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

Inscribed to R. A****, Esq.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short but simple annals of the poor.-GRAY

I.

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My lov'd, my honord, much respected friend!

No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise ; To

you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ;

What A**** in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween

II.

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November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;

The shortning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;

The black’ning trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil 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 homeward benda

Antic The me Gars

The fat

III.

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At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro'

To meet their dad, wi' flichter in noise an glee;
His wee bit ingle blinkin bonily,

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

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

An An

AT Lest

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IV.

Belyve the elder bairns come drappin in,

At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin

A cannie errand to a neebor town;
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

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