O! Rural life, thou blest retreat,
Where sweet contentment dwells ay;
To me ye're dearer than the street,
Where din an' discord yells ay.
There, countless wretches are immur'd,
In fell disease an' starvin';
d thrivin' knaves to guilt inur'd,
Frae virtue's pa ths are swervin'.

Right dear to me are glens and howes,
Wi' craigs aboon me tow'rin',
While burns come tumblin' frae the knowes,
An' owre the linns are pourin'.
The sun blinks blythely on the pool,
That bickers to his glances;
There, water clocks, untaught by rule,
Skip through their countra dances.

The sturdy aik, aboon the brow,
Supports the feeble ivy;
See how it twines wi' mony a bow,
Just as it were alive ay.
The bloomin' broom, the hawthorn white,
That scents the cauler mornin',
An' wild-flow'rs that the heart delight,
The banks an brows adornin'.

Here blythesome burds on hazle boughs,
Chaunt up their mornin' ditty;
Amang the firs the cushat coos, —
Hear how she wails sae pretty!
Better they relish Nature's laws,
Than man wi' a' his knowledge,
An' fill their place, but cracks or flaws,
Though ne'er at school or college.

The sheep, amang the breckan braes,
Are feedin' wi' their lammies;
There, kids as white as new bleach'd claes,
'Mang crags bleat for their mammies;
The shepherd lad sae blythe and gay,
Does loudly tune his chanter;
Plays " Owre the Hills and Far Away, "
To chase ilk care and canker.

Yet still the bonniest flow'r's unsung
O' a' creation's plantin':
For thee has mony a harp been strung,
An'ilka heart been pantin':
But if the precious dew o' sense
Bedeck't, it shaws the sweeter;
Foster'd by mirthfu' modest mense,
It mak's the gift completer.

Leeze me on e'en, whan hill and tree
Are pictur'd in the vallies;
When lasses to the loan do hie,
To milk and feed their mailies;
While sweet an' lang they lilt the sang,
As lads come frae the mawin',
Wha prie their mou' ere it be lang,
In corner till the daw'in'.

When seated roun' the milkin' slap,
Their toils are a' forgotten:
For lasses' looks ha'e ay the knack
To stir up fun an jokin'.
The lads that's kind will bear the pail,
An' pair as love directs them;
While lightly footin't owre the dale,
Nae doubts or fears perplex them.

Now e'ening star, to lovers dear,
Beams in the purple east;
Wi' modest beauties saft and clear,
Like Peggy's spotless breast.
The moon like ony busked bride,
In siller grey was glancin',
An' on the restless rocking tide
Her lightsome locks were dancin'.

But sure, Contentment lives, hersel',
Beneath yon braw clay biggin',
Weel thieked frae the heathery fell,
While brackens crown the riggin'.
The honeysuckles speel the roof,
An' fous adorn the gavel;
The frien'ly firs, they keep it noof,
Frae Boreas' baul'est devel.

Here, glancin' trenchers in a raw,
An luggies laid in order;
There, stuff-hung bed, fu' doucely braw,
Fring'd featly roun' the border.
The sattle chair, for seat or bed,
Wi' forms an' table scour'd weil,
An' glancin' green-horns snugly laid,
In Lucky Dad's ain spoon-creel.

Here auld fouks live wi' bairns' bairns,
An' blest wi' peace and plenty;
Here, parents' hope the bosom warms,
Here youth blooms fair and dainty:
Here dwalls the mither's virtuous smiles,
The faithfu' friend an' father;
Unlike them skill'd in city wiles,
That aften slip the tether.

Here, grey-beard mirth forgets his years,
An' tells his tale fou cheer'ly;
Amaz'd, the list'ning youngster hears
The feats o' Papish Charlie.
But whan the lasses tune the lays,
As Coila's B ARD compos'd them;
'Bout thoughtless joys, o' lovers waes,
They dirl thro' the bosom.

What tho' they ha'e nae op'ra joys,
Or carriage gay to flaunt in;
Or dainty that the stomach cloys,
They never ken they want 'em.
Their hame-spun grey, and halesome fare,
Mak' life as sweet's the gentry's;
An' what they ha'e, they freely share,
Nor heed they learn'd commentries.

Unknown to them the borrow'd glance,
To smile when sorrows twines them;
Or a' the mumm'ries come fra France:
Few spleens or vapours pine them.
Their life is like yon todlin' burn;
Tho' cross craigs whiles may stint it,
Still presses owre ilk thrawart turn,
An' never looks behint it.

My wearied limbs I'd here repose,
An' woo the muses roun' me;
There mark the briar that bears the rose,
While lav'rocks tow'r aboon me.
Here, far frae busy bustlin' strife,
I'd tend life's latest ember;
Unteaz'd by feigned friends or wife,
That wauken care an' clamour.