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I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage Experience bids me this declare• If Heav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure

• spare, • One cordial in this melancholy Vale, • 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modeft Pair, . In others 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 studied, fly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth! Are Honor, Virtue, Conscience, all exil'd ?

Is there no Pity, no relenting Ruth,
Points to the Parents fondling o'er their

Child?
Then paints the ruin's Maid, and their distrac-

tion wild!

XI.

But now the Supper crowns their fimple

board, The healsome Parritch, chief o' Scotia's

food : The foupe their only Hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her

cood: The Dame brings forth. in complimental

mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell,

An'

An' aft he's prest, an'aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, fin' Lint was

i' the bell.

XII.

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 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 so

lemn air.

XIII.

They chant their artless notes in fimple guise ;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest

aim :

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heav'n-ward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's

praife.

XIV.

The priest-like Father reads the sacred page,

How Abram was the Friend of God on high;

Or,

Or, Moses bad eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lye

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.

XV.

Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was

shed;

How He, who bore in Heav'n the second

name, Had not on Earth whereon to lay his

head : How His first followers and servants sped ;

The

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