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The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian thrills are tame;

The tickled ears no heart-felt 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;
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:
There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,

*Pope's Windsor Forest.

In such society, yet still more dear;

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,

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

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest :
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request
That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery 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 loved at home, revered 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 refined!

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-loved Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart! Who dared so 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!

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET

January,

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw

And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely, westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less, and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

*David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect.

But hanker and canker,

To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's power

To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shared;

How best o' chiels are whiles in want,

While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And kenna how to wair't:

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Though we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
"Mair spierna, nor fearna *,"
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could mak us blest;
Even then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste

Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ba',

Has aye some cause to smile:

And mind still, you'll find still,

A comfort this no sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

What though, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,

* Ramsay.

But either house or hall ?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year :

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

It's no in titles nor in rank;

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in making muckle mair:
It's no in books; it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could mak us happy lang;
The heart aye's the part aye,

That maks us right or wrang

Think ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,

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