Compared 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, incensed, the pageant will desert,
  The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
  But haply, in some cottage far apart,
  May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul,
  And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

  Then homeward all take off their several way;
  The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
  The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
  And proffer up to Heaven the warm request
  And He who stills the raven’s clamorous nest,
  And decks the lily fair in flowery 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.

  From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
  That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: 
  Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
  ‘An honest man’s the noblest work of God.’ 
  And certes in fair virtue’s heavenly road,
  The cottage leaves the palace far behind: 
  What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
  Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
  Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

  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-loved isle.

  O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide
  That streamed thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
  Who dared 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!)
  Oh never, never Scotia’s realm desert,
  But still the patriot and the patriot-bard
  In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

  TO A MOUSE

  ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
  NOVEMBER, 1785

  Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
  O what a panic’s in thy breastie! 
  Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
  Wi’ bickering brattle! 
  I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
  Wi’ murdering pattle!

  I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
  Has broken Nature’s social union,
  An’ justifies that ill opinion
  Which makes thee startle
  At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
  An’ fellow-mortal!

  I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
  What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
  A daimen icker in a thrave
  ‘S a sma’ request;
  I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,
  An’ never miss ’t!