THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, GRAY. My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! 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! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 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. At length his lonely cot appears in view, The' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their Dad, wi' flitcherin noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bounily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 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 deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, An' O! be sure to fear the LORD alway! But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 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'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 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- Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 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, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd 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. His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 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 heav'n-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame, The tickled 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 Gon 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 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 name, 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, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Babylon's doom pronounc'd by Then kneeling down, to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, 1 Pope's Windsor Forest. |