This night his weekly moil is at an end,Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Their master's and their mistress's com mand, The younkers a' are warned to obey; Hoping the morn in ease and rest to And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, To meet their "dad," wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom-love sparkling in her e'e And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; "And oh, 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 o' the same, Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafiflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Comes hame; perhaps, to show a braw Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected fleet; That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling, Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- But now the supper crowns their simple board, raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; food; The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- How He, who bore in Heaven the second In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared 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, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 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 preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil sweet content! The old man laid his hand on her head, As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, "Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you cry!" The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the manteltree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were press'd; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay: Fast asleep were they both, that summer day! CHARLES G. EASTMAN. MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS. WHEN I upon thy bosom lean, And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, I glory in the sacred ties That made us ane wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith, The tender look, the meltin' kiss; Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only gi'e us change o' bliss. Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee! I ken thy wish is me to please; Thy bosom still shall be my hame. I'll lay me there and tak' my rest; And if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away, And beg her not to drop a tear. Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain! United still her heart and mine; They're like the woodbine round the tree, That's twined till death shall them disjoin. JOHN LAPRAIK. WINIFREDA. AWAY! let naught to love displeasing, What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honors, And to be noble we'll be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though from fortune's lavish bounty Still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason; And that's the only life to live. Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures While round my knees they fondly clung, To see them look their mother's features, And when with envy time, transported, AUTHOR UNKNOWN. HERMIONÉ WHEREVER I wander, up and about, I have a wife, and she is wise, Coteries rustle to hear her speak; She writes a little-for love, not fame; And how I happened to woo and wed A wife so pretty and wise withal, Is part of the puzzle that fills my head— The only answer that I can see For I am a fellow of no degree, The Latin they thrash'd into me at school away: At figures alone I am no fool, And in city circles I say my say. And the kind of study that I think fine Those learned lips that the learnèd praise— To tell her my stories of things and men ; And, presto! fly! goes her wisdom then! For boy claps hands, and is up on her breast, Roaring to see her so bright with mirth; And I know she deems me (oh the jest!) The cleverest fellow on all the earth! And Hermioné, my Hermioné, In spite of her Greek and philosophy, When I lounge, after work, in my easy- Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace, chair; Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes, By the idle breath of the social air. Hermioné, my Hermioné! What could your wisdom perceive in me? A darling who cries with lung and As fine a fellow, I swear to you, As ever poet of sentiment sung about! And the silly pride in her learnèd face! That is the puzzle I can't make out— For, whenever I think of it, night or morn, I thank my God she is wise, and I ROBERT BUCHANAN. JOHN ANDERSON, MY Jo. When we were first acquent, Your bonnie brow was brent; Your locks are like the snaw; John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, |