Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor,
To do some errands and convoy her hame.[323-21]
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e,[323-22] and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins[323-23] is afraid to speak;
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae[323-24] wild, worthless rake.

VII

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben:[323-25]
A strappin' youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;[323-26]
The father cracks[323-27] of horses, pleughs, and kye.[323-28]
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate[323-29] and laithfu',[323-30] scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae[323-31] bashfu' an' sae grave;
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.[323-32]

VIII

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch,[324-33] chief o' Scotia's food:
The sowpe[324-34] their only Hawkie[324-35] does afford,
That 'yont the hallan[324-36] snugly chows her cood;[324-37]
The dame brings forth in complimental mood
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd[324-38] kebbuck[324-39] fell--
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;[324-40]
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond[324-41] auld, sin' lint was i' the bell;[324-42]

IX

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible,[324-43] ance[324-44] his father's pride:
His bonnet[324-45] rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart[324-46] haffets[324-47] wearing thin an' bare:
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales[325-48] a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

[Illustration: ROUND THE INGLE]

X

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,
Or noble Elgin beats the heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-fe