The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 30

X.

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-- A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?

Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!

Are honour, 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'd maid, and their distraction wild?

XI.

But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of 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 kebbuck, 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.

XII.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The Sire turns o'er, with 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 G.o.d!' he says, with solemn air.

XIII.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the n.o.blest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or n.o.ble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

XIV.

The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of G.o.d 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.

XV.

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 head: How His first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom p.r.o.nounc'd by Heaven's command.

XVI.

Then kneeling down, to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays: Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,'[52]

That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, 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.

XVII.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!

The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

XVIII.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That HE, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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.

XIX.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the n.o.blest work of G.o.d;"[53]

And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordship's pomp? a c.u.mbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of h.e.l.l, in wickedness refin'd!

XX.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And, O! may heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

XXI.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart: Who dar'd to n.o.bly stem tyrannic pride, Or n.o.bly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's G.o.d, 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!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 52: Pope.]

[Footnote 53: Pope.]

XLIV.

THE FIRST PSALM.

[This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet's work. It cannot be regarded as one of his happiest compositions: it is inferior, not indeed in ease, but in simplicity and antique rigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burns had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech's edition, and probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout could not cavil.]

The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his G.o.d.

That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that G.o.d the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest.

XLV.

THE FIRST SIX VERSES

OF THE

NINETIETH PSALM.