A hair-brained sentimental trace,
Was strongly marked in her face;
A wildly witty-rustic grace,
Shone full upon her,
Her eye e'en turned on empty space,
Beamed keen with honor.
Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew,
Deep lights and shadows mingling threw
A lustre grand;
And seemed, to my astonished view
A well known land!
Here rivers in the sea were lost;
There mountains in the skies were tost;
Here tumbling billows marked the coast,
With surging foam;
There, distant shone, Art's lofty boast,
The lordly dome.
Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods;
There well fed Irwine stately thuds:
Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods,
On to the shore;
And many a lesser torrent scuds
With seeming roar.
Low in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient borough reared her head
Still as in Scottish story read,
She boasts a race,
To every nobler virtue bred,
And polished grace.
By stately tower or palace fair
Or ruins pendent in the air
Bold stems of heroes here and there,
I could discern;
Some seemed to muse, some seemed to dare
With feature stern."
Now, imagine the whole of this country, studded at no remote intervals, with churches and schools well supported, and well attended by young and old. Think of her ancient and able Universities, Edinburgh, Glasgow, St. Andrews, and Aberdeen, including in the last, Marischal College and Kings College, with an average attendance of from 2500 to 3000 students, with their learned and amiable professors, extensive libraries, and fine collections in Natural History. Think of her innumerable high schools, private schools, public and private libraries, literary institutes and ancient hospitals, some for the body and some for the mind, and connect the whole with her heroic history, her poetical enthusiasm, her religious faith, her fealty to God and man, and you will have some faint conception of the beauty and glory of Scotland.
But the impression would be deepened, could you behold the land, beautified and ennobled by her sabbath calm, as once in seven days, she rests and worships before the Lord. Could you but hear the voice of her church-going bells, and go to the house of God, in company with her thoughtful but cheerful population; could you sit in some "auld warld" kirk, and hear some grey-haired holy man dispense, with deep and tender tones, the word of everlasting life; could you hear a whole congregation of devout worshippers make the hills ring again, with their simple melody; above all, could you place yourself in some deep shady glen, by the "sweet burnie," as it "wimples" among the waving willows, or the yellow broom, or sit down on the green "brae side," enamelled with "gowans," on some sacramental occasion, when thousands are gathered to hear the preaching of the gospel, and with simple ritual, to commemorate the dying love of the Redeemer! Could you see the devout and happy looks of the aged, and the sweet but reverent aspect of children and youth, as the tones of some earnest preacher thrilled them with emotions of holy gratitude, in view of the "loving kindness of the Lord," you would instinctively feel that Scotland,—free, Protestant Scotland, was a happy land, and would be prepared to exclaim with the sweet singer of Israel: "Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound, they shall walk, O Lord, in the light of thy countenance."
"How with religious awe impressed
They open lay the guileless breast;
And youth and age with fears distressed
All due prepare,
The symbols of eternal rest
Devout to share.
How down ilk lang withdrawing hill,
Successive crowds the valleys fill;
While pure religious converse still
Beguiles the way,
And gives a cast to youthful will,
To suit the day.