Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin. A cannie errand to a neebor town. Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due: Their master's and their mistress's command The younkers a' are warnèd to obey, And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: 'And O be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben: A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave, Weel-pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. Oh happy love, where love like this is found! Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: 'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild?