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He, who bore in Heaven the second name,

      Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:

      How His first followers and servants sped,

      The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:

      How he who lone in Patmos banished,

      Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

      And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

      XVI.

      Then kneeling down, to Heaven’s eternal King,

      The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays:

      Hope ‘springs exulting on triumphant wing,’[52]

      That thus they all shall meet in future days:

      There ever bask in uncreated rays,

      No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

      Together hymning their Creator’s praise,

      In such society, yet still more dear:

      While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

      XVII.

      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 Pow’r, 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.

      XVIII.

      Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;

      The youngling cottagers retire to rest:

      Their 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.

      XIX.

      From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs,

      That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:

      Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

      “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;”[53]

      And certes, in fair virtue’s heav’nly road,

      The cottage leaves the palace far behind;

      What is a lordship’s pomp? a cumbrous load,

      Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,

      Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin’d!

      XX.

      O Scotia! my 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, O! may heaven their simple lives prevent

      From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!

      Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,

      A virtuous populace may rise the while,

      And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d Isle.

      XXI.

      O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide

      That stream’d through Wallace’s undaunted heart:

      Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

      Or nobly die, the second glorious part,

      (The patriot’s God, peculiarly Thou art,

      His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)

      O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert;

      But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,

      In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

      XLIV. THE FIRST PSALM

      [This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet’s work. It cannot be regarded as one of his happiest compositions: it is inferior, not indeed in ease, but in simplicity and antique rigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burns had admitted “Death and Dr. Hornbook” into Creech’s edition, and probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout could not cavil.]

      The man, in life wherever plac’d,

      Hath happiness in store,

      Who walks not in the wicked’s way,

      Nor learns their guilty lore!

      Nor from the seat of scornful pride

      Casts forth his eyes abroad,

      But with humility and awe

      Still walks before his God.

      That man shall flourish like the trees

      Which by the streamlets grow;

      The fruitful top is spread on high,

      And firm the root below.

      But he whose blossom buds in guilt

      Shall to the ground be cast,

      And, like the rootless stubble, tost

      Before the sweeping blast.

      For why? that God the good adore

      Hath giv’n them peace and rest,

      But hath decreed that wicked men

      Shall ne’er be truly blest.

      XLV. THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM

      [The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns: the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reasoning as the poem of “Man was made to Mourn.” These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition; and they might have been spared; for in the hands of a poet ignorant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary?]

      O Thou, the first, the greatest friend

      Of all the human race!

      Whose strong right hand has ever been

      Their stay and dwelling place!

      Before the mountains heav’d their heads

      Beneath Thy forming hand,

      Before this ponderous globe itself

      Arose at Thy command;

      That Pow’r which rais’d and still upholds

      This universal frame,

      From countless, unbeginning time

      Was ever still the same.

      Those mighty periods of years

      Which seem to us so vast,

      Appear no more before Thy sight

      Than yesterday that’s past.

      Thou giv’st the word: Thy creature, man,

      Is to existence brought;

      Again

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