fun. It might have begun well enough, and nobody would have found fault, with

"Some merry, friendly, kintra folks,

Together did convene,

To burn their nits, and pu' their stocks,

And haud their Halloween

Fu' blythe that night;"

but Burns, by a few beautiful introductory lines, brings the festival at once within the world of poetry :

"Upon that night, when fairies light,
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the route is ta'en,
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the Cove, to stay and rove
Amang the rocks and streams
To sport that night.

Amang the bonny winding banks,

Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear,

Where Bruce ance ruled the martial ranks,
And shook his Carrick spear."

Then instantly he collects the company-the business of the evening is set agoing-each stanza has its new actor and its new charm-the transitions are as quick as it is in the power of winged words to fly; female characters of all ages and dispositions, from the auld guidwife "wha fuft her pipe wi' sic a lunt," to wee Jenny "wi her little skelpie limmer's face "Jean, Nell, Merran, Meg, maidens all-and "wanton widow Leezie "-figure each in her own individuality animated into full life, by a few touches. Nor less various the males, from haverel Will to "auld uncle John wha wedlock's joys sin' Mar's year did desire"-Rab and Jock, and "fechtin Jamie Fleck" like all bullies "cooard afore bogles;" the only pause in their fast-following proceedings being caused by garrulous grannie's pious reproof of her oe for daurin to try sic sportin as eat the apple at the glass"—a reproof proving that her own wrinkled breast holds many queer memories of langsyne Halloweens;-all the carking cares of the workday world are clean forgotten; the hopes, fears, and wishes that most agi

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tate every human breast, and are by the simplest concealed, here exhibit themselves without disguise in the freedom not only permitted but inspired by the passion that rules the night "the passion," says the poet himself, "of prying into futurity, which makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened of our own."

But how have we been able to refrain from saying a few words about the "Cottar's Saturday Night"? How affecting Gilbert's account of its origin!

"Robert had frequently remarked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, 'Let us worship God,' used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the 'Cottar's Saturday Night.' The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, were taken from Fergusson's 'Farmer's Ingle.' When Robert had not some pleasure in view in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the community), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make me regret to see their number abridged. It was on one of those walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat 'The Cottar's Saturday Night.' I do not recollect to have read or heard anything by which I was more highly electrified." No wonder Gilbert was highly electrified; for though he had read or heard many things of his brother Robert's of equal poetical power, not one among them all was so charged with those sacred influences that connect the human heart with heaven. It must have sounded like a very revelation of all the holiness for ever abiding in that familiar observance, but which custom, without impairing its efficacy, must often partially hide from the children of labour, when it is all the time helping to sustain them upon and above this earth. And this from the erring to the steadfast brother! From the troubled to the quiet spirit! out of a heart too often steeped in the waters of bitterness, issuing, as from an unpolluted fountain, the inspiration of pious song! But its effect on innumerable hearts is not now electrical-it inspires

peace. It is felt yet, and sadly changed will then be Scotland, if ever it be not felt, by every one who peruses it, to be a communication from brother to brother. It is felt by us, all through from beginning to end, to be BURNS's "Cottar's Saturday Night;" at each succeeding sweet or solemn stanza we more and more love the man-at its close we bless him as a benefactor; and if, as the picture fades, thoughts of sin and of sorrow will arise, and will not be put down, let them, as we hope for mercy, be of our own-not his; let us tremble for ourselves as we hear a voice saying, "Fear God and keep his commandments."

There are few more perfect poems. It is the utterance of a heart whose chords were all tuned to gratitude, "making sweet melody" to the Giver, on a night not less sacred in His eye than His own appointed Sabbath.

"November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

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 Cottar 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." That one single stanza is in itself a picture, one may say a poem, of the poor man's life. It is so imaged on the eye that we absolutely see it; but then not an epithet but shows the condition on which he holds, and the heart with which he endures, and enjoys it. Work he must in the face of November; but God who made the year shortens and lengthens its days for the sake of his living creatures, and has appointed for them all their hour of rest. The "miry beasts" will soon be at supper in their clean-strawed stalls-"the black'ning train o' craws" invisibly hushed on their rocking trees; and he whom God made after his own image, that "toil-worn Cottar," he too may lie down and sleep. There is nothing especial in his lot wherefore he should be pitied, nor are we asked to pity him, as he "collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes:" who have work to do and do it not, may envy many of us, contentment, and the religion that gladdens his release'hoping the MORN in ease and rest to spend," only to such as

his

he, in truth, a Sabbath. "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day. Six days shalt thou labour and do all that thou hast to do. But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the I ord thy God. In it thou shalt do no manner of work." O! that man should ever find it in his heart to see in that law a stern obligation-not a merciful boon and a blessed privilege!

In those times family-worship in such dwellings, all over Scotland, was not confined to one week-day. It is to be believed that William Burnes might have been heard by his son Robert duly every night saying, "Let us worship God." "There was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase" every time he heard it; but on "Saturday night" family worship was surrounded, in its solemnity, with a gathering of whatever is most cheerful and unalloyed in the lot of labour; and the poet's genius in a happy hour hearing those words in his heart, collected many nights into one, and made the whole observance, as it were, a religions establishment, it is to be hoped, for ever.

The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth," says Gilbert, "thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul;" and well they might; for, in homeliest words, they tell at once of home's familiar doings and of the highest thoughts that can ascend in supplication to the throne of God. What is the eighteenth stanza, and why did it too "thrill with peculiar ecstasy my soul?" You may be sure that whatever thrilled Gilbert's soul will thrill yours if it be in holy keeping; for he was a good man, and walked all his days fearing God.

"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 clam'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." Think again of the first stanza of all-for you have forgotten it of the toil-worn Cottar collecting his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, and weary o'er the moor bending his course homewards. In spite of his hope of the morn, you could hardly help looking on him then as if he were disconsolate

now you are prepared to believe, with the poet, that such brethren are among the best of their country's sons, that

"From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad ;"

and you desire to join in the Invocation that bursts from his pious and patriotic heart,—

"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 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.

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!"

We said there are few more perfect poems. The expression is hardly a correct one; but in two of the stanzas there are lines which we never read without wishing them away, and there is one stanza we could sometimes almost wish away altogether; the sentiment, though beautifully worded, being somewhat harsh, and such as must be felt to be unjust by many devout and pious people:

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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 heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise."