Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; almost/partly
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, no
worthless Rake.
With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; inside
65 A strappan youth, he takes the Mother’s eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen; taken
The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. talks, ploughs, cattle
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; shy, hesitating, well
70 The Mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy cunning
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave; so
Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave. well-, child’s, the others
O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
75 I’ve pacè d much this weary, mortal round,
And sage EXPERIENCE bids me this declare —
‘If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy Vale,
‘Tis when a youthful, loving, modest Pair,
80 In other’s arms, breathe out the tender tale
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.’
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,
85 Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling, smoothe!
Are Honor, Virtue, Conscience, all exil’d?
Is there no Pity, no relenting Ruth, sorrow
Points to the Parents fondling o’er their Child?
90 Then paints the ruin’d Maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the Supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome Porritch, chief o’ SCOTIA’S food; wholesome porridge
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, drink/milk, cow
That, ‘yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; beyond, partition, chews
95 The Dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell; well-matured cheese, tasty
And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid; often, asked, calls, good
The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell, wife
How ‘twas a towmond auld, sin’ Lint was i’ the bell. 12 months old, flax, flower
100 The chearfu’ 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. hall Bible, once
His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
105 His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; grey sidelocks
Those strains that once did sweet in ZION glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care,
‘And let us worship GOD!’ he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
110 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 heaven-ward flame, fans
The sweetest far of SCOTIA’S holy lays:
115 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 praise. no, have
The priest-like Father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the Friend of God on high;
120 Or, Moses bade 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;
125 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 shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
130 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 banishè d,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
135 And heard great Bab’lon’s doompronounc’d by Heaven’s command.
Then kneeling down to HEAVEN’S ETERNAL KING,
The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays:
Hope ‘springs exulting on triumphant wing,’1
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
140 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.
145 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 POWER, incens’d, the Pageant will desert,
150 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 enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
155 The youngling Cottagers retire to rest: youthful
The Parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to