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THE

Robert Burns.

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

"Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor."

MY

GRAY.

Y loved, my honoured, 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 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 short'ning 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 labour 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 ;
weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

And

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher thro'

To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and glee.

His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnilie,

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

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

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 neebour town.

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her c'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful yearsAnticipation forward points the view.

The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due :

Their masters' and their mistresses' command
The younkers a' are warned to obey,
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

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;

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebour lad cam o'er the moor
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
Wi' 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 taks 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 wi' 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 graveWeel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare-
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
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 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 honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their childThen paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild?

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

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud;
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell, An' aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it good;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell

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

His lyart haffets wearin' thin and 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 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 o' the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame-
The sweetest far o' Scotia's holy lays;
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame

e;

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 Abraham 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:

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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 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;

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