BURNS. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! 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 The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly speirs: The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. 30 35 40 The mother wi' her needle an' her sheers The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 45 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' 55 But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 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, Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; A strappan 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. I бо 65 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 70 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love! where love like this is found!. And sage experience bids me this declare- 75 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale 80 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart- That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 85 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild! 90 But now the supper crowns their simple board, The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallen snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 95 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 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; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 2 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 140 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145 150 But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul, And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 155 160 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 165 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 refin'd! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 170 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! 175 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. 180 O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, |