The Cotters Saturday Nigh
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the cotter's saturday night inscribed to r. aiken, esq., of ayr. let not ambition mock their useful toil, their homely joys, ainy obscure; nrandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, the short and simple annals of the poor. gray. my lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! no merary bard his homage pays; with ho pride, i s each selfish end, my dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: to you i sing, in simple scottish lays, the lowly train in life's sequester'd se, the native feelings strong, the guileless ways, what aiken in a cottage would have been; ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there i ween! november chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; the short'ning winter-day is near a close; the miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; the blaing trains o' craws to their repose: the toil-worn cotter frae his laboes,— this night his weekly moil is at an end, collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, hoping the morn in ease ao spend, and weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. at length his lonely cot appears in view, beh the shelter of aree; th' expet wee-things, toddlin, stacher through to meet their dead, wi' flichterin noise and glee. his wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, his hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, the lisping infant, prattling on his knee, does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, and makes him quite fet his labour and his toil. belyve, the elder bairns e drapping in, at service out, amang the farmers roun'; some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin a ie errand to a neibor town: their eldest hope, their jenny, woman-grown, in youthfu' bloom-love sparkling in her e'e— es ha