THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT MY (Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq., of Ayr) "Let not ambition mock their useful toil, - GRAY. Y loved, my honored, 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 sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways: What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 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. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher1 through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee, 1 Stagger. VOL II-5 2 Fluttering. His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyvd1 the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey; "An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk" or play; An' oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' 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!" But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; To do some errands, and convoy her hame. Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins' is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye, The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. But blate and laithful1 scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.5 O happy love! where love like this is found! "Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening Is there, in human form, that bears a heart- Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild! But now the supper crowns their simple board: The halesome parritch,' chief o' Scotia's food; The soupe their only hawkie" does afford, That 'yont the hallan3 snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell, An' aft he's pressed, an' aft he calls it guid; How 'twas a townmond' auld, sin 'lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His bonnet reverently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And, "Let us worship God !" he says, with solemn air. Porridge. Biting. 2 Cow. 3 Porch. 4 Well-saved. Graylocks. 5 Cheese. 8 Since the flax was in flower. 10 Chooses. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abraham 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 Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 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 he ; How His first followers and servants sped. The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he who lone in Patmos banishéd Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then, kneeling down, to heaven's Eternal King 66 Pope's "Windsor Forest." Adds fuel to fire. |