An' thus the lassie's prayer ran—
"O send thy servant some bit man,
"Before her cheeks grow bleach'd an' wan,
"An' a' her beauties leave her."
A weaver lad wha ance had woo'd,
But cam' nae speed, do a' he could,
Now thocht her pride might be subdued,
An' that he yet might have her.
He watch'd when to the barn she gaed,
An' while her bit request she made,
In solemn tone he slowly said—
"Lass-will ye tak' a weaver?"
Thy will be done I'm now content,
"Just ony body ere I want,
"I'll e'en be thankfu' gin you grant
"That I may get a weaver.'
The weaver, he cam' yont neist day,
An' sought her hand-she ne'er said "nay,"
But thocht it time to mak' her hay,
So jumpit at the weaver.
Now, ye whase beauty's on the wane,
Just try the barn, at e'en yer lane,
Sma' fish are better far than nane,-
Ye'll maybe catch a weaver.
My Country, my Country !-O there is a charm
And spell in that sound, which must every heart warm ;
Let us pant at the Line, let us freeze at the Pole,
Pronounce but my Country-it thrills through my soul.
And where lies the charm in that all-potent sound,
That is felt and acknowledged where'er man is found?
And why is our Country-the land of our birth—
The sweetest the loveliest spot upon earth?
Say; is it in climate? in soil? or in sky?
In gay sunny landscapes that ravish the eye?
In rich golden harvests? in mines of bright ore?
It may be in these but there's still something more:
The deeds of our fathers, in times that are gone;
Their virtues, their prowess, the fields they have won;
Their struggles for freedom; the toils they endured;
The rights and the blessings for us they procured;
Our music, our language, our laws, our great men, Who have raised themselves high by the sword or the pen;
Our productions of genius, the fame of our arms,
Our youths' native courage, our maidens' soft charms :
The dreams of our childhood, the scenes of our youth,
When life's stainless current ran placidly smooth;
Our friends, homes, and altars; our substance, though
small,
And one lovely object, the sweetener of all.
From these, and ten thousand endearments besideFrom these spring the charm that makes Country our pride;
And what wanting these would a paradise be?
A waste a dark cell-a lone rock in the sea.
The adventurous emigrant, launched on the main,
Who goes to behold not his Country again,
What painful reflections must rush through his mind,
As he takes the last look of the shores left behind :—
The long cherished spot where to manhood he grew, The friends whom he loved, the acquaintance he knew ; Parents, children, or wife, left behind broken-hearted, The mutual sorrows that flowed when they parted;
A Country before him all strange and unknown,
Where no heart in unison beats with his own--
Such thoughts through his mind that sad moment will
rush, While big swelling drops from his straining eyes gush.
But the merchant or warrior, absent afar
From his Country, engaged in her commerce or war, Returning, at last, what a flood of delight
Fills his soul, when his Country first breaks on his sight!
How cheering the hope, that he shortly will meet,
The warm grasp of friendship, or love still more sweet!
And while his heart bounds towards home's hallowed
Even Watch, the old house-dog, is then not forgot.
But, Oh! it is only the man who is free,
That can boast, "I've a Country that smiles upon me;"
The captive and slave who in wretchedness moan,
Alas! they can scarce call their Country their own.
The Laplander, coursing his deserts of snow,
Possessing his rein-deer, his sledge, and his bow;
On Lapland though warm summer suns rarely beam,
No Country on earth is like Lapland-to him.
Though scanty his fare, yet, content with his lot,
The terrors of slavery trouble him not;
He bounds free as air o'er his own native snows,
Secure in his poverty, fearing no foes.
But the ill-fated Negro, from home rudely torn,
And o'er the Atlantic a poor captive borne;
How frantic the grief of his untutored mind,
While sharp galling fetters his manly limbs bind :
Pent up in a dungeon, deprived of fresh air-
The victim of sorrow, disease, and despair-
Behold the poor negro-man, panting for breath,
And gasping, and struggling, and praying for death:
Now see him, poor wretch! to the slave-market brought,
Like the ox of the stall, to be sold-to be bought,
Condemned to hard toil, by the cruel whip flayed;
Oh, God! was't for this, that the negro was made?
A captive-a slave, on a far foreign coast,
Where now is his Country?-To him it is lost;
A sad recollection is all he has left
Of home's sweet endearments, from him wholly reft.
But the time may arrive yet, when HE, even HE!
Will burst his vile fetters, and rank with the free;
How glorious to see him then, treading the sod,
Erect-independent-the image of God.
O, Haytians how noble a cause have you won;
You now have a Country, who lately had none;
The trammels that bound you, in shivers you've broke ;
And scorned now alike, are the tyrant and yoke.
The children of Judah in warfare o'ercome,
And borne away captive afar from their home.
By Babylon's rivers how loud was their moan,
While they wept their lost Country, laid waste and
o'erthrown.
Their Zion consumed, and their temple defiled,
Of all its rich ornaments robbed and despoiled;
Its vessels, for God's holy service ordained,
By lips, all unholy and impious, profaned.
No wonder, then, Judah's sad children deplored
The havoc and rage of the conqueror's sword;
For while, mocked and insulted, in bondage they lay,
What Temple-what Zion-what Country had they?
Not so, the brave Greeks, when obliged to retreat From their Athens destroyed, and retire to their fleet,
Oh, say, when their city was one smoking heap,
Say, where was their Athens ?-'Twas there on the deep.
Yes, they had a Country, for still they were free;
To no foreign conqueror bent they the knee;
Their fields might be wasted, their homes wrapt in flame,
Their fleet and their freedom were Country to them.
O, glorious example, by patriots of old—
Would to God that their sons were but now half so bold!
One gleam of the steel only waved by such hands,
Were sufficient to wither the whole Moslem bands.
Then freedom again would smile lovely on Greece,
And rapine, and murder, and tyranny cease;
And Athens and Sparta we yet might behold,
Out-rivalling Athens and Sparta of old.
And the Hellenists-lords of their own native soil-
Would reap unmolested the fruits of their toil ;
And their Country, no longer by slavery debased,
Would present one vast Temple to Liberty raised!
Then since it is freedom, and freedom alone,
That halloweth Country and makes it our own;
May she march with the sun, like the sun may she
blaze,
Till the whole earth be gilded and warmed by her rays.
Accurst be the villain, and shunned by mankind,
Who would fetter the body, or trammel the mind;
May his name be detested, himself from earth driven,
Who thus would rob man of the best gift of heaven !
But honoured and blest be the patriot chief,
Who fearlessly struggles for mankind's relief;
In his Country's affections, long, long may he bloom,
And his memory shed an eternal perfume!
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