Anticipation forward points the view :
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,

Gars 20 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's comm

mand,
The younkers a’ are warned to obey ;
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent 21 band,

An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play :
“An', 0! 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 Lord aright!”
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 his name,

While Jenny hafflins 22 is afraid to speak ;
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nåe wild worthless rake.
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 23

A strappan 24 youth, he taks the mother's eye ;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta’en ;

The father cracks 25 of horses, pleughs, and kye.26
The youngster's artless heart o’erflows wi' joy,

But blate 27 an. laithfu', 98 scarce can weel behave ;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave,
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.29
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.”

28

20 Makes. 21 Diligent.

22 Partly
23 Into the parlour.

24 Tall and handsome. 25 Converses. 26 Kine, cows.

27 Bashful. 28 Reluctant. 29 The rest, the others. SP. ENG. LIT.

Q

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 honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 30

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? But now the supper crowns their simple board!

The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : The soupe 32 their only hawkie 33 does afford,

That 'yont 34 the hallan 35 snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd 36 kebbuck, 37 fell, 38 An' aft he's press’d, an' aft he ca's it good ;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How ’twas a towmond 39 auld,40 sin 41 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, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big Ha’-Bible,43 ance his father's pride ; His bonnet reverently is laid aside,

His lyart 44 haffets 45 wearin' thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales 48 a portion with judicious care ;
And “ Let us worship God,” he says, wi' solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ;
Perhaps Dundee’s 47 wild warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyrs,47 worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin 47 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 ; Nam unison bae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page,

How Abram was the friend of God on high ;

46

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ;
Or, how the Royal Bard 48 did groaning lie

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or, Job's pathetic plaint 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 dame,

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : How His first followers and servants sped,

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How he 49 who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, [command. And beard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's

50

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.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,

In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide.

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 51 But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way ;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret hoinage 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. 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, 52 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 ! 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, 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-loved isle. 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 !

52 Certainly.

261. John Wolcott. 1738-1819. (Manual, p. 396.)

THE RAZOR SELLER.

A fellow in a market town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,

And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence;.

Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard :
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,

That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose :
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,

“This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. “No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul, content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,

Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor !—then the rest he tried-
All were impostors—“Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,

“I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." Hodge sought the fellow-found him—and begun : * Prhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives :
You rascall for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,

With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave.”
“Friend,” quoth the razor-man, “I'm not a knave:

As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave." “Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; “What were they made for then, you dog ?” he cries :

“Made !” quoth the fellow, with a smile,—“TO SELL.”