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46

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam 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
Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;

Weel pleas'd, the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake,
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben

A strappan youth, he taks the mother's eye,
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
The father cracks o' 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' and sae grave
Weel pleas'd to think her bair'ns respected like the leave.
The cheerfu' 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 wearin thin and bare; Those strains that ance did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion wi' judicious care,

And 'Lets worship God!' he says, wi' solemn air.

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 heav'n 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.
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 noblest work of God,'

COUNSEL. Vain, in Misery.

Bring me a father that so lov'd his child,
Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,
And bid him speak of patience;

Burns.

Measure his wo the length and breadth of mine,
And let it answer every strain for strain;.
As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,
In every lineament, branch, shape and form :
If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;
Cry-sorrow, wag! and hem, when he should groan:
Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk
With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,
And I of him will gather patience.

But there is no such man: For, brother, men
Can counsel; and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,

Charm ache with air, and agony with words. Shakspeare,
COURTIER. Finical one described.

But I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a lord, neat, trimly dress'd,

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took 't away again ;-
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:-and still he smil'd, and talk'd
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them-untaught knaves, unmannerly
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corpse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest demanded
My prisoners, on your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what;

He should, or he should not ;-for he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, God save the mark!
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was
That villanous salt-petre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

Shakspeare.

COURTIERS.

Who wrap destruction up in gentle words,

And bows, and smiles more fatal than their swords:
Who stifle nature and subsist on art;

Who coin the face, and petrify the heart:
All real kindness for the show discard,
As marble polished and as marble hard:
Who do for gold what Christians do through grace,
"With open arms their enemies embrace:"
Who give a nod when broken hearts repine:
"The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine,"
Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd:
And in their height of kindness, are unkind.
CRANMER. His Prophecy.

The royal infant (heaven still move about her)
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be
(But few now living can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all princes living with her,

And all that shall succeed: Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue,
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is.
With all the virtues that attend the good,

Shall still be doubled on her; truth shall nurse her,

Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her;

Young.

She shall be lov'd, and fear'd; her own shall bless her;

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,

And hang their heads with sorrow: Good grows with her;
In her days, every man shall eat in safety

Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours :
God shall be truly known; and those about her

From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.

CRAZY KATE.

Shakspeare.

There often wanders one whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin, trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.
A servant-maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy followed him, through foaming waves
To distant shores; and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers: fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,

And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death-
And never smil'd again! and now she roams
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tatter'd still, and both but ill conceal
A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,

And hoards them in her sleeve: but needful food,
Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,

Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.-Kate is craz'd.

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"Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our Sense.

Cowper.

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