But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch,' chief o' Scotia's food:
The soupe their only Hawkie' does afford,

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That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood.
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell; *
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 't was a towmond' auld, sin' lint was i' the bell."

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle,' form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

8

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

9

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales 10 a portion with judicious care,

And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

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 " beets 11 the heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickl'd 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;

3 Partition wall.

1 Wholesome porridge. 2 White-faced cow. cheese, tasty. Twelvemonth. 6 Flax was in flower. 7 Fireplace. Gray sidelocks. 10 Selects. 11 Feeds.

4 Well-saved

8 Once.

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants sped;

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land :

How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd 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.

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

In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:

The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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 lov'd at home, rever'd 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 refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
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-lov'd Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part,

(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art,

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)

O never, never, Scotia's realm desert:

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,

Thou 'st met me in the evil hour;

4

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun * shield ;
But thou, beneath the random bield

5