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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 clamorous 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.
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 !
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-loved 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
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
Along the banks of Ayr,
Seemed weary worn with care;
And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
Began the reverend sage;
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Too soon thou hast began
The miseries of Man.
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
Twice forty times return;
That Man was made to mourn.
O Man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Licentious passions burn;
That Man was made to mourn.
Look not alone in youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Supported in his right.
With cares and sorrows worn,
Show Man was made to mourn.
Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame !
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And Man, whose heaven-created face
The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn !
See yonder poor, o'er-labour'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.
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave
By nature's law design'dWhy 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 power
To make his fellow mourn ?
Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
Is surely not the last !
never, sure been born, Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn !
O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Are laid with thee at rest!
From pomp and pleasure torn!
That weary-laden mourn.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL 1786.
Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,
thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou honnie gem.
Alas it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' spreckled breast,
The purpling east.
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.