Poets of the Eighteenth Century.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744). See biographical note, page 155.

"The Hermit "; short poems.

“Night Thoughts"; "The Last Day";

Allan Ramsay (1686–1758). “The Gentle Shepherd”;

66 Fables and Tales."

John Gay (1688-1732).

"Scots Songs";

"The Beggar's Opera"; "The Shepherd's

Week"; "Trivia"; "Rural Sports"; fables, and other short poems. Matthew Green (1696-1737). "The Grotto"; "The Spleen."

Grongar Hill"; "The Fleece."

Robert Blair (1699–1746). "The Grave."

James Thomson (1700-1748). "The Seasons"; "The Castle of Indolence."

Samuel Johnson (1709-1784). "The Vanity of Human Wishes "; "London."

Richard Glover (1712-1785). "Leonidas"; "Admiral Hosier's Ghost";

"The Athenaid."

William Shenstone (1714-1763). "The Schoolmistress"; "Pastoral

Ballads."

Thomas Gray (1716-1771). See biographical note, page 139.
William Collins (1721-1759). Odes and other short poems.

Mark Akenside (1721-1770).

"The Pleasures of the Imagination.”

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774). See biographical note, page 128.

Thomas Warton (1728-1790). "The Pleasures of Melancholy"; "The Triumph of Isis"; short poems.

William Cowper (1731-1800). See biographical note, page 122.

Charles Churchill (1731-1764). "The Prophecy of Famine"; "The Rosciad."

James Beattie (1735-1803). "The Minstrel."

Robert Fergusson (1750-1774). Short Scottish poems.

Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770). "Poems of Thomas Rowlie "; short

poems.

George Crabbe (1754-1832). “Tales of the Hall"; "The Village"; "The Parish Register"; "Tales in Verse."

William Blake (1757-1827). "Songs of Innocence"; "Songs of Experience"; "Poetical Sketches."

Robert Burns (1759-1796). See biographical note, page 111.

Robert Burns.

THE COTTER'S1 SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, Esq.2

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short but simple annals of the Poor.3-

My loved, my honored, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise :
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,1
The lowly train 5 in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;

What Aiken in a cottage would have been;

Gray.

Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there I

ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 6
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor 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.7

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee things toddlin', stacher thro'
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,

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

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,

An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.8

Belyve, the elder bairns9 come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' 10 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neibor 11 town:

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposit 12 her sair-won penny-fee,13

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-winged, 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 shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play :
"And, oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord. aright!" 14

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came 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;
Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his name,

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;

Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless

rake.

15

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin' youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.16
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But, blate and lathefu', 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.

O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt 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!

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth,
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled?

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?

Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild!

But now the supper crowns their simple board, -
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food:
The sowpe their only hawkie 17 does afford,
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood;
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hained 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.18

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, 19 ance his father's pride: