Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, Their master's and their mistress's command, And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play: 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; With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and lathefu', 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. O happy love! where love like this is found! If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, '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 gale. Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 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 soupe 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-hained kebbuck, fell, And aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The priest-like father reads the sacred page,- Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,— How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 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, 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. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; Then homeward all take off their several way; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery 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. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp?-a cumbrous load, O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide, That streamed through 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! Robert Burns [1759-1796] ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed O welcome guest, though unexpected here! |