Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 130 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 pronounc'd by Heaven's command. 135 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, That thus they all shall meet in future days: 140 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. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145 In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide 150 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 enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 155 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 160 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 165 "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 refin'd! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 170 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 175 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-lov'd Isle. 180 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! 185 TAM O' SHANTER. A TALE Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. GAWIN DOUGLAS. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, 5 IO 15 20 25 That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, She prophesy'd that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; 30 Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 35 40 They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; 45 And ay the ale was growing better: 50 55 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 70 And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; 75 Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: 85 Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; What dangers thou canst make us scorn! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 30 95 100 105 ΠΙΟ |