Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want-oh, ill-matched pair!--
Show man was made to mourn.
"A few seem favourites of fate,
In Pleasure's lap caressed;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
"Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame:
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!
"See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife ·
And helpless offspring mourn.
"If I'm designed yon lordling's slave
By Nature's law designed,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?
"Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressèd, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn.
"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend--
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my agèd limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn ;
But, oh! a blest relief to those
That, weary-laden, mourn!”
To the high praise already mentioned as having been given by other Poets and critics to "The Cotter's Saturday Night," may be added that of the correct and careful Poet Rogers, who said that it was "The finest Pastoral in any language." The quotation from Gray is not prefixed to the copy in manuscript sent to my grandfather in my possession.-P.F.A.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
[Inscribed to ROBERT AIKEN, 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.
My loved, my honoured, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end:
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been:
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;1
The shortening winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an agèd tree;
The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily,
His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
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,'
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 5 rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
3 Fire, or fireplace. + By and by.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's weelfare kindly speers :'
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears:
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition duc.
Their masters' an' their mistresses' command,
The younkers a' are warnèd to obey;
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent1 hand,
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play :
'An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An' mind your duty duly, morn an' 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 neebor lad cam' 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 hafflins is afraid to speak:
Weel pleased the mother hears its nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,6
A strappan youth; he taks the mother's eye;
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye:
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows with joy.
But blate and laithfu',9 scarce can weel behave;
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
The mother wi' a woman's wiles can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.1
O 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,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 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,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food:
The soupe their only Hawkies does afford,
That 'yont the hallan1 snugly chows her cood:5
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hained" kebbuck, fell,
An' aft he's prest, an aft he ca's it guid;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond 8 auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.'
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They round the ingle form a circle wide;
|