I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And fage Experience bids me this declare'If Heav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure

• fpare,

• One cordial in this melancholy Vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest Pair,

In others arms breathe out the tender

• tale,

• Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the

ev'ning gale.'

X.

Is there, in human form, that bears a heartA Wretch! a Villain! loft to love and truth! That can, with ftudied, fly, enfnaring art,

Betray Sweet Jenny's unfufpecting youth? Curfe on his perjur'd arts! diffembling smooth!

Are Honor, Virtue, Confcience, 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 distrac

tion wild!

XI.

But now the Supper crowns their fimple board,

The healfome Parritch, chief o' Scotia's

food:

The foupe their only Hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan fnugly chows her

cood:

The Dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb

buck, fell,

An

An' aft he's preft, an' aft he ca's it guid;
The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond auld, fin' Lint was

i' the bell.

XII.

The cheerfu' Supper done, wi' ferious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The Sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ba'-Bible, ance his Father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid afide,

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Thofe ftrains that once did fweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care;

And Let us worship GOD!" he says, with fo

lemn air.

XIII.

They chant their artless notes in fimple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the nobleft

aim:

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rife, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or 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 no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unifon hae they with our Creator's praise.

XIV.

The priest-iike Father reads the facred page, How Abram was the Friend of GOD on high;

Or,

Or, Mofes bad 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;
Or rapt Ifaiah's wild, feraphic fire;
Or other Holy Seers that tune the facred lyre,

XV,

Perhaps the Chriftian Volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was

fhed;

How He, who bore in Heav'n the fecond

name,

Had not on Earth whereon to lay his

head:

How His firft followers and fervants sped;

The