At sunrise they leap From their cradles steep In the azure sky, When they love, but live no more. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. — Burns. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. My loved, my honored, much respected friend! My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 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 bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro' His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does all his weary, karking care beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 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 deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the unco's 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 auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. G Their master's an' their mistress's command And mind your duty, duly, morn and night! 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; To do some errands, and convoy her hame. Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears, it 's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill-ta’en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows with joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected like the lave. O happy love, where love like this is found! "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial, in this melancholy vale, "T is when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food; The soup their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell, An' aft he 's pressed, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie garrulous will tell, How was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His bonnet reverently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps "Dundee's" wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive" Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beats the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ear no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 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; |