"The Cotter’s Saturday Night" by Robert Burns

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, ance his father’s pride;

His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin an’ bare;

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care;

And “Let us worship God!” he says, with solemn air.

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 beets the heavenward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise;

Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.