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'* Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

"Implore his counfel and alfisting migb.: "They never fought in vain that fought the Lori •« aright."

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door,

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the fame. Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor,

To do fome errands, and convoy her hame. The wily Mother fees the confcious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e*e# and siuih her cheek, With heart-sirui k, anxious care, enquires his name.

While jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the Mother hears, it's nae wild worthlefs rake.

With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;

A sirappan youth; he takes the Mother's eye; Elvthc Jenny fees th^ vifits no ill ta'en;

The Father cracks o' horfes, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artlefs heart o'erilows wi' joy,

But Mate, an' laithtu' fcarce can weel Debate; The Mother, wt' a woman's wiles, can fpy

What makes the youth fae balhfu' and fae grave; Wed pleas'd to think her bairn's refpected like the lave.

O happy lo,ve! where love like this is found!

O heart-selt raptures! blifs beyond compare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And fage Fxpcrier.ce bids me this declare— '' It' Heaven a draught of heavenly pleafure fpare,

*« One cordial in this melancholy vale,

*' 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest: pair,

In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, '' Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'jiing "gale."

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,

A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with ftudied, fly, enfnaring art,

Betray fweet Jenny's unfufpecting youth? Curfe on his pcrjtir'd airts, dissembling fmooth!

Are honour, virtue, confcience, all exil'd? Js there no pity, no relenting ruth.

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their diffraction wild?

But now the fupper crowns their simple board,

The heal fome porritch, chief of Scotia's food; The foupe their only bawkie dots assord,

That 'yont the hallan fnugly chows her Cood: The Dame-brings forth, in comnlimentat mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal Wine, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond auld sin' Lint was P the bell.

The chearfu' fufmer done, wP serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;

The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride:

His bonnet reVrcntly is laid aside,

His lyart hasfcti wearing thin and bare;

These straioi that once did fweet in Zion glide,

He walesa portion with judicious care; "And let us worship God 1" he fays, with folemn air.

They chauut their artlefs notes in simple guife;

They tune their hearts, hy far the nohlest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild warhling meafures rife,

Or plaintive Martyr's, worthy of the name; Or nohle Elgin heets the heaven-ward flame,

The fweeteft lar of Scotia's holy lays: Com par'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled cars no heart-felt raptures raife; Kae unifon hae they with our Creator's praife.

The priest-like Father reads the facred page,

How Ahram was the friend of God on high $ Or, Mofes hade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lye,

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Joh's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;

Or rapt Ifaiah's wild feraphic sire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the facred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme,
How guiltlefs hlood for guilty man was shed ,

How He, who hore in heaven the feconpVname,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:

How His sirst followers and fervants fped;
The precepts fage they wrote to many a land:

How he, who lone in Patmos hanished,
Saw in the fon a mighty Angel stand,

And hear'd great Bah'lon's doom pronounc'd hy Heaven's comma ud.

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,

The Saint, the Father, and the Hulband prays: Hope " fprings exulting on triumphant wing," *

That t/ius they all lhall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays.

No more to sigh or thed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praife,

In fuch fociety, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eterrntl fphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,

In all the pomp of method and of art, When men difplay to congregations wide

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Fower, incens'd, the pageant will defert,

The pompous strain, the facerdotal stole; But haply in some Cottage far apart,

May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the foul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take oss their feveral way;

The youngling Cottagers retire to rest: The Parent-pair their fecret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He w ho ftills the raven's clam'rous nest,

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His Wisdom fees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide;
But chielly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From fdeues like thefe old Scotia's grandeur fprings.,
Thai makes her lov'd at home, reverM abroad:

* Bopc's Windsor Forest

t'rinces and lords are but the breath of kings,

"An honeft man's the noblest work of God :** And certcs, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,

The Cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp? A cumbrous load,

Difguisirn; oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickednefs resin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native foil!

For whom my warmest wilh to Heaven is fent! Long may thy hardy fons of rustic toil,

Be blest with health and peace, and fweet content! And, 0! may Heaven their simple lives prevent

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile' Then, nowe'er crowns and coronets he rent,

A virtuous Populace may rife the while, And stand a wall of lire around their much-lov'd ifle.

O Thou 1 who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stroam'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart; Who dar'd tc, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the fecond glorious part: (The patriot s God peculiarly thou art.

His friend, infpirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never Scotia's realm defert,

But still the Patriot and the Patriot-bard, In bright fuccession raife, her ornament and guard!


On turniog one down with the plough, io April 17SJ

EE, modest, crimfon-tipped Flow'r! Thou's met me in an evil hour;

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