II.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The shortening winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,

The blackening 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, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

III.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily,

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

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

IV.

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun':
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie ria
A cannie errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be
V.

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,

An' each for others' weelfare kindly spiers The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation 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.

VI.

Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey; "An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,

An' ne'er, though 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 Lor aright!"

VII.

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 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires s name,

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake.

VIII.

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 blathe and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

IX.

O happy love! where love like this is found! O heartfelt 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."

X.

Is there, in human form, that bears a heartA wretch a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, insnaring 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 truth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

XI.

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

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 wife, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

XII.

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 reverently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' 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.

XIII.

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 the heavenward flame,

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

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

Then homeward all take off their several way;
The yougling 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.
XIX.

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!

*Pope's Windsor Forest.

XX.

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 bless'd with health and peace, and sweet content!

And O 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.

XXI.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart;

Who dared 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!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE. I.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair.

II.

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?" Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage;

Or haply, press'd with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

III.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen you weary winter sun

Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.

IV.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime !
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives nature's law,

That man was made to mourn.

V.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, O ill match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn.

VI.

"A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think, not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, O! what crowds in every land

Are wretched and forlorn;
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
VII.

"Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and share!

And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

VIII.

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

IX.

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,By nature's law design'd,—

Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

X.

"Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn!

XI.

"O death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn;

But O! a bless'd relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!"

I.

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

II.

If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun,

As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done;

III.

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And listening to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

IV.

Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide.

V.

Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,

But thou art good; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.

WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between: Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,

And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation
ran?

O thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With what controlling power assist e'en me,
Those headlong, furious passions to confine ;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

AUTHOR LEFT

THE FOLLOWING VERSES

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.

I.

O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above!
I know thou wilt me hear:
When for this scene of peace and love,
I make my prayer sincere.

II.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleased to spare!
To bless his little filial flock,
And show what good men are.

III.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!

VI.

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush;
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!

V.

The beauteous, seraph sister band,

With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on every hand, Guide thou their steps alway!

VI.

When soon or late they reach that coast,
O'er life's rough ocean driven,
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost,
A family in heaven!

THE FIRST PSALM.

THE man, in life wherever placed,
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,

Nor learns their guilty lore!
Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe

Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.

For why that God the good adore
Hath given them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.

A PRAYER

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

O THOU Great Being! what thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to thee

Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before thee stands,

All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul,

Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act

From cruelty or wrath!

O free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;
Then man my soul with firm resolves
To bear and not repine!

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM.

O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend

Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been

Their stay and dwelling place!
Before the mountains heaved their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself
Arose at thy command:

That power which raised and still upholds
This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,

Appear no more before thy sight

Than yesterday that's past.

Thou givest the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought:

Again thou say 'st, "Ye sons of

men,

Return ye into naught!" Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood thou takest them off With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flower,
In beauty's pride array'd;

But long ere night cut down it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckled breast.

When upward-springing, bly the to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield,
But thou beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

Such fate of suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven,

To misery's brink, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink!

E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom!

TO RUIN. I.

ALL hail! inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,

The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel wo-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,

A sullen welcome, all! With stern-resolved, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart;

For one has cut my dearest tie,

And quivers in my heart.