the sowp their only hawkie does afford,

that, 'yont the han snugly chows her cood:

the dame brings forth, in plimental mood,

to grace thed, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;

and aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid:

the frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell

how t'was 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, with patriarchal grace,

the big ha'bible, ance his father's pride:

his bon rev'rently isid aside,

his lyart haffets wearing 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 intive martyrs, worthy of the name;

or noble elgin beets the heaven-ward me;

the sweetest far of scotia's holyys:

par'd with these, italian trills are tame;

the tickl'd 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 int, 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,

how guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;

how he, who bore in heaven the second name,

had not on earth whereon toy his head:

how his first followers and servants sped;

the precepts sage they wrote to many and:

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 mand.

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,

in such society, yet still more dear;

while circling time moves round in an eternal sphere

par'd with this, how poor religion's pride,

in all the pomp of method, and of art;

when men disy 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;

but haply, in some cottage far apart,

may hear, well-pleas'd, thenguage of the soul;

and in his book of life the inmates poor enroll.

then homeward all take off their sev'ral 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 m'rous nest,

and decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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 lov'd at home, rever'd 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 pce 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

be blest 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 coros be rent,

a virtuous popce may rise the while,

and stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.

o thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

that stream'd thro' wace'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 ession raise, her ornament and guard!