Fleuron from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
THE
BEAUTIES
OF
BURNS' POEMS.
Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
The Cotter's Saturday-Night.
INSCRIBED TO R. A****, Esq.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short but simple annals of the Poor.—GRAY.
MY lov'd, my honour'd, much-respected friend, No mercenary Bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest need, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in Life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, What A**** in a cottage would have been; Ah! thoʻ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning train o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly toil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in case and rest to spend, And weary, owre the muir, his course does homeward bend.
At length his lonely Cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expecting wee-things, todlin-stachor through To meet their Dad, wi' flighterin noise and glee. His w bit ingle blinkin bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty Wifie's smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And maks him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Relyve the elder bairns come drappin in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd; some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibour town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthful bloom love sparklin in her ee, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, O deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parcats dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' joy, unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's wlefare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic d fleet:. Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, ee their hopefu' years; Anticipation forward points the view : The mother wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their Master's and their Mistress's command, The younkers n' are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, And ne'er, tho' out of sight, to jauk or play And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 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: Jenny, wha kens the meaning of the same, Tells how a neibour lad came owre the moor, To do some errands, and ccavoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his, name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : Weel pleas'd, the mother lears it's nae wild worthless rake.
With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; A strappin youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blythe Jenay sees the visit's no ill ta'en. The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart oferflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, mi' a woman's wiles, can spy What maks the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave: Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respeckitlike the lave
O happy love! where love like this is found: O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary mortal round, And sure Experience bids me this declare- If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In others arms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milli-white tharn that scents the evening gale.
Is there in human form, that bears the heart- A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That ean, 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 ditraction wile
Put now the supper crowns the simple board, The healsome Parritch, chief of Scotia's food, The some 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 well-lain't kebheck fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it gude; 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 found 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 hafrats wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wails a portion with judicious care: And 'Let us worship God,' he says, wi' solemn 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; Qr 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 nae heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison they hae with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the Friend of God on high; Or Moses bad eternal warfare rage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic 'plaint, and wailing cry; Or wrapt 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, 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 love in Patmos baniched, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand! And heard great Bab'lon's doom prouounced by Heaven's command!
Then kneeling down to Heav'n's eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband, prayse Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing[1], 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.
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 every grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole: But, hap'ly, 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.
Then homeward all take off their several way: The youngling Cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous 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 That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God'[2]. And certes, in fair Virtue's heav nly road, The Cottage leaves the Palace far behind: What is a lordship's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, is wickedness refin'd!
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warniest wish to Heav'n is sent! Long may thy hardy sons, of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and pace, and sweet content! And, O may Heav'n 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.
O 'Thou who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stree'd thro' 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, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and rewardǃ O never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the Patriot and the patriot-Bard, In bright succession rise, her Ornament and Guards
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