Then all I want (O, do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

THE

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO R. A****, ESQ.

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.

I.

GRAY.

My lov'd, my honour'd, 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,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What A**** in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I

ween;

II.

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 Cotter 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.

III.

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

IV.

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

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

V.

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;

More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heav'n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

VIII.

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

IX.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,-
By nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn?

X.

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

XI.

O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, Oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!

A

PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

I.

✪ THOU unknown, Almighty Cause

Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,

Perhaps I must appear!

II.

If I have wander'd in those paths

Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

III.

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

IV.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

V.

Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good! and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.

WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between :
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God,

And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.