| INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. |
| Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, |
| Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; |
| Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful
smile, |
| The short and simple annals of the poor. |
|
GRAY |
| 1. |
| My lov’d, my honor’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 Aiken in a cottage would have been ; |
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier
there I ween!
|
| 2. |
| 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 labor 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.
|
| 3. |
| At length his lonely cot appears in view. |
| Beneath the
shelter of an aged tree ; |
| Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher
through |
| To meet
their dad, wi’ flichterin’ noise and glee. |
| His wee bit
ingle, blinkin bonilie, |
| His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty’s
wifie’s smile, |
| The lisping
infant, prattling on his knee, |
| Does a’ his weary carking cares beguile, |
And makes him quite forget his labor and
his toil.
|
| 4. |
| Belyve, the elder bairns 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 spakling 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.
|
| 5. |
| With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters
meet, |
| And each for
other’s weelfare kindly spiers : |
| 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 ; |
| The mother, wi’
her needle and her sheers, |
| Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the
new ; |
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.
|
| 6. |
| Their master’s and their mistress’s command |
| The younkers a’
are warned to obey ; |
| And mind their labors wi’ an eydent hand, |
| And ne’er, tho’
out o’ sight, to jauk or play : |
| ‘And O! be sure to
fear the Lord alway, |
| And mind your duty, duly, morn and night ; |
| Lest in
temptation’s path ye gang astray, |
| Implore His counsel and assisting might : |
They never sought in vain that sought the
Lord aright.
|
| 7. |
| But hark! a rap comes gently to the door ; |
| Jenny, wha kens
the meaning o’ the same, |
| Tells how a neebor lad came o’er the moor, |
| To do some
errands, and convoy her hame. |
| The wily mother
sees the conscious flame |
| Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek
; |
| With heart-struck
anxious care, enquires his name, |
| While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; |
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae
wile, worthless rake.
|
| 8. |
| With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; |
| A strappin’ youth,
he takes the mother’s eye ; |
| Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen ; |
| The father cracks
of horses, pleughs, and kye, |
| The youngster’s
artless heart ov’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’ and sae
grave ; |
Weel-please’d to think her bairn’s
respected like the lave.
|
| 9. |
| O happy love! where love like this is found
: |
| O heart-felt
raptures! bliss beyond compare! |
| I’ve pacèd much this weary, mortal round, |
| And sage
experience bids me this declare:— |
| ‘If Heaven a
draught of heavenly pleasure spare, |
| One cordial in this melancholy vale, |
| ‘Tis when a
youthful, loving, modest pair, |
| In other’s arms, breathe out the tender
tale |
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents
the ev’ning gale.’
|
| 10. |
| Is there, in human form, that bears a
heart, |
| A wretch! a
villain! lost to love and truth! |
| That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, |
| Betray sweet
Jenny’s unsuspecting youth? |
| Curse on his
perjur’d arts! dissembling, smooth! |
| Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? |
| Is there no
pity, no relenting ruth, |
| Points to the parents fondling o’er their
child? |
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their
distraction wild?
|
| 11. |
| But now the supper crowns their simple
board, |
| The healsome
parritch, chief o’ Scotia’s food ; |
| The soupe their only hawkie does afford, |
| 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 ; |
| And aft he’s
prest, and aft he ca’s it guid ; |
| The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, |
How ‘twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’
the bell.
|
| 12. |
| The chearfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face, |
| They, round the
ingle, form a circle wide ; |
| The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace, |
| The big ha’-Bible,
ance his father’s pride, |
| His bonnet
rev’rently is laid aside, |
| His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; |
| Those strains that
one did sweet in Zion glide, |
| He wales a portion with judicious care, |
And ‘Let us worship God’ he says, with
solemn air.
|
| 13. |
| 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 heaven-ward flame, |
| The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays : |
| Compar’d
with these, Italian trills are tame ; |
| The tickl’d ears no heart-felt 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 Isiah’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 banishèd, |
| Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, |
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d
by Heaven’s command.
|
| 16. |
| Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal
King, |
| The saint, the
father, and the husband prays : |
| Hope ‘springs exulting on truimphant 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. |
| Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s
pride, |
| In all the pomp of
method, and of art ; |
| When men display to congregations wide |
| Devotion’s ev’ry
grace, except the heart ! |
| The Power,
incens’d, the pageant will desert, |
| The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole : |
| 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.
|
| 18. |
| 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 clam’rous 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.
|
| 19. |
| From scenes like these, old Scotia’s
grandeur springs |
| That makes her
lov’d at home, rever’d abroad : |
| Princes and lords are but the breath of
kings, |
| ‘An honest man’s
the noble(st) 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
refin’d!
|
| 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-lov’d
Isle.
|
| 21. |
| O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide, |
| That stream’d
thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart, |
| Who dar’d 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!
|
| Robert Burns
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ A Red, Red Rose ] [ To a Mountain Daisy ] [ Address to a Haggis ] [ Address to Edinburgh ] [ Auld Lang Syne ] [ Is there for Honest Poverty ] [ Address to the Unco Guid ] [ The Cotter's Saturday Night ] [ To a Louse ] [ My Heart's in the Highlands ] [ Holy Willie's Prayer ] [ Tam O'Shanter ] [ To a Mouse ] |
