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, 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 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 pre XIX. From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 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 con tent! 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 nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! When Burns was first invited to dine at Dunlop-house, a westlan dame, who acted as housekeeper, appeared to doubt the propriety of her mistress entertaining a mere ploughman who made rhymes, as if he were a gentleman of old descent. By way of convincing Mrs. M'Guistan, for that was her name, of the bard's right to such distinction, Mrs. Dunlop gave her “The Cotter's Saturday Night" to read. This was soon done: she returned the volume with a strong shaking of the head, saying, "Nae doubt gentlemen and ladies think mickle o' this, but for me its naething but what I saw i' my father's house every day, and I dinna see how he could hae tauld it ony other way." The M'Guistans are a numerous clan; few of the peasantry personally acquainted with Burns were willing to allow that his merit exceeded their own.-"Indeed, sir," said one of those worthies, Hugh Cowan by name, to an inquiring admirer, "Robert Burns, save in clinking words, was just an ordinary man. I taught him the use o' the cudgel, and should ken what he had in him, I think." Of the origin of this poem, Gilbert Burns gives a clear account.-" Robert had frequently remarked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, 'Let us worship God!' used by a decent, sober head of a family, introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the Author, the world is indebted for The Cotter's Saturday Night.' When Robert had not some pleasure in view in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons—those precious breathing times to the labouring part of the community-and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the Author repeat 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' I do not recollect to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul." The household of the virtuous William Burness was the scene of the poem, and William himself was the saint, and father, and husband of this truly sacred drama. Of this there can be no doubt; though I have heard it averred by gentlemen from the neighbourhood of Mauchline that George Wilson, cotter on the farm of Lochlea, a pious and worthy man, sat for the portrait. It is a better authenticated fact that Burns had Fergusson's " Farmer's Ingle" in his mind when he composed it. Both poems give an image of the household of a husbandman: the elder-born bard says: "Weel kens the gudewife that the pleughs require O' nappy liqour, owre a bleezin fire; Sair wark and poortith downa weel be joined, I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams; " He continues the rustic picture, and exhibits the inmates in conversation "The couthy cracks begin when supper's owre; O' simmer's showery blinks and winter sour, 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales go on, How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; The waefu' scauld o' our mess John to bide." The housewife lectures her maidens on thrift, and the farmer is not unemployed : "Frae him the lads their morning counsel tak; What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; How big a birn may lie on Bassie's back, For meal and multure to the thirlen mill. Neist the gudewife her hireling damsels bids Glowr through the byre and see the hawkies bound, And ca' the leglins treasure on the ground, Whilk spills a kebbuck nice or yellow pound." It is to be lamented that the pictures of Fergusson and Burns are not to be explained by reference to the general practice of these our later days: the farmer no longer presides among his menials like a father with his children, and the sound of psalm and prayer is now seldom heard among the farm onsteads and cottages. Washington Irving, perceived a similar falling off in the southhe is speaking of family prayers." It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is fallen into neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony." |
