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The cheerfu' Supper done, wi' serious face,
They found the ingle form a circle wide;
The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart hafrats wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wails a portion with judicious care:
And 'Let us worship God,' he says, wi' solemn air,
They found the ingle form a circle wide;
The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart hafrats wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wails a portion with judicious care:
And 'Let us worship God,' he says, wi' solemn air,
They chant their artless notes in simple guise ;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs', worthy of the name;
Qr 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 nae heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison they hae with our Creator's praise.
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs', worthy of the name;
Qr 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 nae heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison they hae with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like Father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the Friend of God on high;
Or Moses bad eternal warfare rage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic 'plaint, and wailing cry;
Or wrapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;
Or other Holy Seers, that tune the sacred lyre.
How Abram was the Friend of God on high;
Or Moses bad eternal warfare rage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic 'plaint, and wailing cry;
Or wrapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;
Or other Holy Seers, that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:
