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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, modest Pair,

« In others arms breathe out the tender

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• tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that fcents the

ey'ning gale.


Is there, in human form, that bears a heart

A Wretch! a Villain! loft to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

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


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

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

tion wild !


But now the Supper crowns their fimple

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

food : 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-hain'd kebþuck, fell,


An' aft he's prest, an' 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; 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.


They chant their artless notes in simple 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



The priest-iike Father reads the facred 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 ayenging


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


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 ;


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