Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer (3)/Chapter 5
THE
Cottager's Saturday Night
A POEM.
Containing a very pleasing and affecting
Description of the piety and happiness of
a Cottager and his Family.
November chill blow loud with angry brow,
The short'ning winter's day is near a close
The miry beasts retreating from the plough;
The black'ning train of crows seek their repose
The toil-worn Cottager from labour goes,
This night his weekly toil 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 homeward bend.
At length his lonely Cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant young ones tottering stagger thro'
To meet their Dad with prattling noise and glee
His little wood-fire sparkling cheerfully,
His clean hearth-stone, his thrifty wife's glad smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does all his weary anxious cares beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
The elder children soon come dropping in,
At service out, among the farmers round;
come drive the plough, some herd, some careful run
A clever errand, to a neighb'ring town;
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthful bloom, health sparkling in her eye.
Comes home perhaps, to shew her braw new gown,
Or else to lay her hard earn'd penny by,
To help her parents dear if they in hardship lie.
With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's welfare kind inquires;
the social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the news that he sees or hears;
The Parents' partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view!
The mother with her needle and her shears,
Makes old clothes look almost as well as new,
The Father mixes all with admonition due.
Their Master's and their Mistress's command,
The Youngers all are warned to obey;
And mind their labours with a careful band,
And ne'er, tho' out of sight, to lurk or play;
And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night,
Best in Temptation's path ye go 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, who knows the meaning of the same
Tells how a neighbour lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her home.
The cautious Mother marks the conscious flame,
Sparkle in Jenny's eye, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hesitates afraid to speak;
Well pleas'd the Mother hears, it's no wild worthless rake.
With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him in;
A comely youth: her joy the Mother shews;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
The Father talks of horses, fields, and cows,
The Youngster' sartless heart o'erflows with joy.
But dash'd and bashful scarce can well behave.
The Mother, with a woman's wiles can spy,
What makes the Youth so bashful and so grave,
Well-pleas'd to think her Child such suitor's like to have.
O happy Love! where Love like this is found
O heart-felt pleasure! bliss beyond compare
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience, bids me thus declare—
'If Earth a draught of true delight can share
One cordial in this melancholy Vale,
'Tis when a Youthful, loving, modest Pair,
With hearts sincere breathe out the tender tale
Walking o'er fragrant fields that scent the ev'ning 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!
Woe to his perjur'd arts! dissembling, smooth
Are Honour, Virtue, Conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no Pity, no relenting truth,
Points to the Parents fondling o'er their Child?
Then paints the ruin'd Maid, and their destruction wild!
But now the Supper crowns their simple board,
The oatmeal parridge cheap and wholesome food,
The milk their only cow does well afford,
That in the orchard peaceful chews her cud;
The Dams brings forth in complimental mood,
To please the Lad, the cheese she would not sell,
And oft he's prest, and oft he calls it good;
The frugal housewife, talkative will tell
How 'twas a twelvemonth old, since flax was in the bell.
The cheerful Supper done with serious face,
They round the embers form a circle wide;
The Sire turns o'er with Patriarchial grace,
The huge big Bible, once his Father's pride,
His hat is reverently laid aside,
His hoary locks growing so thin and bare:
From strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He takes a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays;
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,'
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There ever dwell in uncreated rays,
to more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
together hymning their Redeemer's praise,
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 ev'ry grace except the heart!
The power incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, 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 sev'ral way,
The Youngling Cottagers retire to rest;
The parent-pair then secret homage pay
And offer up to heaven the warm request:
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And deck's 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 reside.
O Britain! my most dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From Luxury's contagion weak and vile!
And from each Cot, may pray'r and praise be sent,
To God's high throne, that He may deign to smile,
And like a wall of fire surround our much lov'd Isle.
FINIS.