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 heartfelt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
14 The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God 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.
15 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 Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's
16 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.
17 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;
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 enroll.
18 Then homeward all take off their several 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 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.
19 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, 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!
20 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, O! 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.
21 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!
3 The characters and incidents, which the poet here describes in so interesting a manner, are such as his father's cottage presented to his observation: they are such as may everywhere be found among the virtuous and intelligent peasantry of Scot land. "I recollect once he told me," says Professor Stewart, "when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which they contained." With such impressions as these upon his mind, he has succeeded in delineating a charming picture of rural innocence and felicity. The incidents are well selected, the characters skilfully distinguished, and the whole composition is remarkable for the propriety and sensibility which it displays. -DR. IRVING.
SAD bird of night, what sorrows call thee forth,
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?
Is it some blast that gathers in the North,
Threatening to nip the verdure of thy bower?
Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn?
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?
Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn?
Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train,
To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom;
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.
Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,
And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song:
Sing on, sad mourner! to the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.
Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to pity's call?
Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there;
That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou can't repeat;
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair.
Nor that the treble-songsters of the day
Are quite estranged, sad bird of night, from thee;
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.
From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,
While the grey walls and desert solitudes
Return each note, responsive to the gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods;-
There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee
Than ever lover to the nightingale;
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale.
THE TWA DOGS. A TALE.
"TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,1
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure: 2
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But walpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar:
But, though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he; 3
But wad hae spent an hour caressin
Even wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi'
him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks hath Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither; [kit;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snow-
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they how-
kit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until, wi' daffin' weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort of o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies lived ava.
Our Laird gets in his rackèd rents,
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling
Was made lang syne-Lord knows how At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke:
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face
1 Kyle, or Coil, the poet's native province, derives its name from Coilus, King
An' though the gentry first are stechin',
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragoûts, and sic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastric.
Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner
Better than ony tenant man
His Honour has in a' the lan':
2 One of these representative dogs, Luath, was a real character, and belonged An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, to Burns himself. Cæsar, the Newfound. I own it's past my comprehension.
land dog, was a fictitious character, created by the poet for the purpose of chatting with his favourite Luath. The broth
ers, Henry and Hugh Cowan, said they Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fasht happened to be aiding Burns and his A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, [enough; father with a load of wood at Coilsfield, Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, when the poet's collie and the collared Newfoundlander met and grew very social. Burns looked at them often, and smiled, yet said nothing: but when the poem was published, they knew to what period his thoughts had wandered.
Baring a quarry, an' sic like. Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han'-darg, to keep 3 This old Scottish phrase seems to Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. have the force merely of a strong nega-An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, tive; the English equivalent being, "the devil a bit of pride had he."
4 Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.
Like loss o' health or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hun-
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, [ger:
They're maistly wonderfu' contented:
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!
Lord, man! our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinkin' brock.
I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash:
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think;
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided;
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fireside:
An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappy
Can mak' the bodies unco happy;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
An' ferlic at the folk in Lon❜on.
As bleak-faced Hallowmass 5 returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' every station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the Earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin' pipe an' sneeshin-mill
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse,
The young anes rantin' thro' the house;
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his soul indentin'.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it!
Say rather, gaun, as Premiers lead him,
An' saying ay or no's they bid him:
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais tak's a waft,
To make a tour, and tak' a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'.
There, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails!
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars, and fetcht wi' nowt:
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter.
For Britan's guid!-for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sea mony a braw estate?
Are we sae foughten an' haráss'd
For gear to gang that gate at last?
O, would they stay aback frae Courts,
An' please themselves wi' countra sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer,
5 The old festival of Hallowmas, or All Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, Saints, falls on the 1st of November.
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.
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