No sound of hammer or of saw was there. Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjoin'd, nor other cement ask'd 145 Than water interfused to make them one. Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, 150 Gleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'd From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. So stood the brittle prodigy; though smooth 155 For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 160 Convivial table and commodious seat (What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there, The same lubricity was found in all, 165 And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene Of evanescent glory, once a stream, And soon to slide into a stream again. [The remaining seven hundred and forty lines of this poem consist of little but commonplace reflections on political institutions and on the moral government of the world.] BURNS. 10 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. My lov'd, my honour'd, mach respected friend! Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortning winter-day is near a close; Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 15 At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 330 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or déposite her sair-won penny-fee, 35 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 40 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 Their master's an' their mistress's command, An' ne'er. tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: 50 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!" But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame 55 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 60 Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 65 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. happy love! where love like this is found! O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced 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, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 70 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart 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? 85 90 But now the supper crowns their simple board, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The hig ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 95 100 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 105 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, And “Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. |