The 1650 Psalter

“The Cotter’s Saturday Night”
(excerpt)

By Robert Burns (1759-1796)
Taken from The Works of Robert Burns (Liverpool: J. M‘Creery, 1800), Vol. 3, pp. 178, 179

XII.

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.

XIII.

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 heav’n-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:
Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.

—————

The Good Old Psalms

By William M‘Comb (1793-1873)
Taken from The Poetical Works of William M‘Comb (London: Hamilton, Adams, & Co., 1864), pp. 378-380

“O thou my soul, bless God the Lord,”
For David’s good old Psalms,
Companions in my pilgrimage—
Their melody embalms,
The days when first I heard the swell,
“All people that on earth do dwell.”

O sing to me the twenty-third:
I ever love to hear
“The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want,”
It brings my mother near—
The cradle hymn she taught to me
When nightly bending at her knee.

“I’ll of salvation take the cup,”
Sweet sacramental Psalm:
O who hath ever heard the strain
So tender and so calm,
But felt that David’s harp and lay
Breathed sweeter on that vowing day.

“Remember me, Lord, with that love”
Thou bearest to thine own,—
May I thy chosen people meet
Around the heavenly throne,
And there, amidst the angel throng,
Hear David’s harp, and David’s song.

Our Covenanting sires of old,
In dark and evil days,
From many a lonely mountain pass
Raised high the voice of praise.
To God they cried, nor cried in vain—
O Lord, “the avenging foe restrain.”

Nor hymn, nor song of earthly bard
Could aid devotion then;
Nought but the thrill of David’s Psalms
Was meet for highland glen,
No human strains of earth-born songs
Could breathe like them of Scotland’s wrongs.

I love the old Prophetic Psalms,
They tell of David’s Son—
The fountain that He filled with blood,
The victory He won—
His sufferings upon the tree,
The crown of thorns and agony.

“God’s mercies I will ever sing,”
For Psalm and Sabbath-day,
For David and his holy songs
“Of grave sweet melody.”
“O thou, the God of all my praise,”
Accept the offering I raise.

—————

Sabbath Reminiscences
(excerpt)

By Jane L. Gray (1796-1871)

Taken from Samuel D. Burchard, ed., The Laurel Wreath (Hartford: S. Andrus & Son, 1845), pp. 251, 252

I remember, I remember, as ’twere but yesterday,
The Psalms in Rouse’s version sung, a rude but lovely lay,
Nor yet, though fashion’s hand has tried to train my wayward ear,
Can I find aught in modern verse, so holy or so dear!
And well do I remember, too, our old Precentor’s face,
As he read out and sung the line, with patriarchal grace;
Though rudely rustic was the sound, I’m sure that God was praised,
When David’s word, to David’s tune, five hundred voices raised!

—————

The Psalms

[Note: The oldest source where I could find this anonymous poem was Christian Nation, Vol. 52 (January 12, 1910), p. 2. After this, it may be found in James Hastings, ed., The Great Texts of the Bible: Job to Psalm 23 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1913), pp. 168, 169; The Free Presbyterian Magazine and Monthly Record, Vol. 18, No. 6 (October, 1913), p. 237; and The Covenanter Witness (American), Vol. 78, No. 3 (January 18, 1967), p. 33.]

There’s lots of music in the Psalms,
Those dear, sweet Psalms of old,
With visions bright of lands of light
And shining streets of gold.
I hear them singing, singing still,
In memory soft and clear;
“Such pity as a father hath
Unto his children dear.”

They seem to sing forevermore
Of better, sweeter days,
When lilies of the love of God
Bloomed white in all the ways;
And still I hear the solemn strains
In the quaint old meeting flow;
“O greatly blessed the people are
The joyful sound that know.”

No singing books were needed there,
For very well we knew
The tunes and words that moved our hearts
The dear old Psalm book through—
To “Coleshill” at the sacrament,
We sung as tears would fall,
“I’ll of salvation take the cup,
On God’s name will I call.”

And so I love the dear old Psalms;
And when my time shall come,
Before the light has left my eyes,
Before my lips are dumb,
If I can only hear them then,
I’ll gladly soar away:
“So pants my longing soul, O Lord,
That come to Thee I may.”

—————

In Praise of the Metrical Psalms

Anonymous

Taken from “Newsletter” for St. Paul’s United Reformed Church, Victoria Avenue, Harrogate (May 2013), p. 12

We sang them in the meeting-house
On Sabbaths long ago;
O greatly blest the people are
The joyful sound that know.

They cheered the downcast, lifted hearts,
And brightened up the day;
That man hath perfect blessedness
Who walketh not astray.

We loved the words and sentiments,
We knew the tunes by names:
Kilmarnock, Glasgow, Evan, French,
St. Magnus and St. James.

The music seemed to link us with
A higher love than here;
Such pity as a father hath
Unto his children dear.

All people that on earth do dwell —
I hear it ringing still;
The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want —
It gives the heart a thrill.

And when the road of life is hard,
And hope and comfort flee;
How lovely is Thy dwelling-place,
O Lord of hosts, to me.

The singing joins us with our brethren
Far across the sea;
Praise waits for Thee in Zion, Lord,
To Thee vows paid shall be.

It blesses all earth’s families
Who on His mercy call;
Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place
In generations all.

Whatever cross we have to bear,
Whatever time may bring;
To render thanks unto the Lord
It is a comely thing.

And whether sorrow fills the cup
Or gladness calls for praise,
O come and let us to the Lord
In songs our voices raise.

Let harp and organ praise Him from
The rising of the sun;
O sing a new song to the Lord,
For wonders He hath done.