Monie a fair daurk we twa hae wronght, An' wi'the weary, warl' fought;

An' monie an anxious day I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,

Wi' fomething yet.

An' think na', my old trufty fervan', That now perhaps thou's lefs defervin', An' thy auld days may end in ftarvin',

For my last fow,

A heapit Stimpart, I'll referve ane

Laid by for you

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither!
Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether

To fome hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' fma' fatigue.

THE

TE R's

SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO R. A****, Esq.

Let not Ambition mock their ufual toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful smile,
The fhort aud fimple annals of the Poor.

My

Y lov'd, my honour'd much refpected friend! No mercenary Bard his homage pays;

With honeft pride, I fcorn each selfish end,
My deareft meed, a friend's efteem and praise :
you I fing, in fimple Scottish lays,

To

The lowly train in life's fequefter 'd fcene, The native feelings ftrong, the guilefs ways, What A**** in a Cottage would have been ; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I

ween!

II.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry fugh;
The fhort'ning winte r-day is near a close;
The miry beafts 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 fpades, his mattock, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in cafe and reft to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his courfe does hameward

bend.

III.

At length his lonely Cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ;

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, ftacher through To meet their Dad, wi flichterin noife and glee, His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,

His clean hearth flane, his thrifty Wife's fmile,
The lifping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile.
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
IV.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin in,
At service out amang the Farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, fome herd, fome tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Their eldest hope, their Jeny, woman-grown,
In youthfu' bloom, Love fparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to fhew a braw new gown;
Or depofite her fair-won penny-fee,

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

V.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and fifters meet,
And each for other's welfare kindly spiers;
The focial hours, fwift wing'd unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he fees or hears.
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;

The Mother, wi' her needle aud her fheers,

Gars auld claes look amaift as weel's the new; The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

VI

Their Mafter's and their Miftrefs's command
The yonkers a' are warned to obey;

And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' fight, to jauk or play;;
And O! be fure to fear the Lord alway!

And mind your duty, duely, morn an' night!: • Left in temptation's path ye gang aftray, Implore his counfel and affifting might: They never faught in vain that faught the LORD aright,'

VII.

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door,
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the fame,
Tells how a neebor lad camé o'er the moor,
To do fome errands, and convoy her hame,

The wily mother fees the confcious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flufh her cheek, With heart-ftruck anxious care, enquires his name,›

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleaf'd the Mother hears, it's nae wild worth

lefs rake.

VIII.

With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;

A ftrappan youth; he takes the Mother's eye ;Blythe Jenny fees the vifit's no ill ta'en;

The Father cracks o' horfes, pleughs, and kye.
The Youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth fae bashfu' and fae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's refpected like the lave.

IX.

O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! blifs beyond compare !
I've paced much, this weary mortal round,
And fage Experience bids me this declare-
• If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
• One cordial in this melancholy Vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loying, modest Pair,

In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale,

• Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning

gale.'

X.

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart

A Wretch! a Villain! loft to love and truth! That can, with ftudied, fly, enfnaring art,