Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new; 45 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 50 Their master's and their mistress's command They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.' 65 But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame 60 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; 65 A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill taen; 70 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn 's respected like the lave. O happy love! where love like this is found: 75 I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: - One cordial in this melancholy vale, "Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 80 In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 85 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 90 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? 95 But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 100 The chearfu' supper done, wi' 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 rev'rently is laid aside, 105 His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; 110 115 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; Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 120 Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 125 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 130 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme: 135 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command. 140 Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, That thus they all shall meet in future days; 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. 145 Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride In all the pomp of method and of art; 155 160 But haply, in some cottage far apart, Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 175 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, 180 And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. 185 O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, Or nobly die, the second glorious part: In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! 4 TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, | Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! 20 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Wi' murd'ring pattle! 40 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, An' forward, tho' I canna see, For promis'd joy! I guess an' fear! 44 48 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, But now the share uptears thy bed, Thou bonie gem. And low thou lies! 28 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight 48 |