But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame 55 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 60 Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 65 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. What makes the youth sae bashfu’an' sae grave; O happy love! where love like this is found! I've pacéd much this weary, mortal round, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 70 75 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 80 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, Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? 90 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; 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 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 66 Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 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 other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 95 100 105 ΓΙΟ 115 120 125 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 130 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. 135 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing," 66 That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 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, 145 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 ; 150 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; 155 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 160 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 66 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 165 170 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 175 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. 180 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! 185 TAM O'SHANTER. A TALE Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. GAWIN Douglas. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; 5 10 15 20 25 330 |