He wales a portion with judicious care; And Let us worship GOD!' he says, with solemn air. XIII. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : [rise; Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name: Or noble Elyin beets the heav'n ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. XIV. 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 [ire; Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. XVIII. 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. XIX. 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 heav'nly 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! XX. 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 Heav'n their simple lives pre vent 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 muchloved Isle. XXI. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' 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: A DIRGE. I. WHEN chill November's surly blast |