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List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wba bide this brattle

O' winter war,
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle,

Beneath a scar, Ilk bapping bird, wee helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o'thee ? Where wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring wing,

An' close thy e'e ?

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Ev'n

you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone, from your savage homes exil'd,
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,

My heart forgets,
While pitiless the tempest wild,

Sore on you beats.
Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffled, vie'd the dreary plain
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,

Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow, solemn, stole

“ Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows

More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice, unrepenting,
Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man

stows!

ho

“See steru oppressior's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Wo, want, and murder o'er a land!
“Evin in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side,

The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches, in the rear,
Look o'er proud property extended wide,
And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,
A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.
“ Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly honor's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath love's noble name,
Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim,

To bless himself alone!

“ Mark maiden-innocence a prey

To love pretending snares,
This boasted honor turns away,

Shunning soft pity's rising sway,
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing prayers !

Perhaps, this hour, in mis’ry's squalia nest,

She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrieks at the rocking

blast!

“Oye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think for a moment on his wretched fate,

Whom friends and fortune quite disown!

1

Ill satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call,
Stretch'd on his straw, he lays himself to sleep,
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifiy heap !--

Think on the dungeon's grim confiue,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine !
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ?
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low

By cruel fortune's undeserved blow!
Affliction sons are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer

Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail'd the morning with a cheer,

A cottage-rousing craw.
But deep this truth impress’d my mind

Tho' all his works abroad
The heart, benevolent and kind,

The most resembles GOD.

WINTER,

A DIRGE.

I.

The wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw ;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw:
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While tumbling brown, the burn comes down

Aød roars frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

II.
• The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'*

The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May!
The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul,

My griefs it seems to join,
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

III.
Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are thy will !
Then all I want (O do thou grant

This one request of mine !)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign.

DESPONDENCI,

AN ODE.

OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,
A burden more than I can bcar,

I sit me down and sigh ;
O Life! thou art a galling load,

* Dr. Young

A long, a rough, a weary road,

To wretches such as I !

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick’ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom ;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!

II.

Happy, ye sons of busy life
Who, equal to the bustling strife,

No other view regard !
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,

They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,

Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same,
You, bustling, and justling,

Forget each grief and pain ;
1, listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.

III.

How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,

Beside his crystal well!
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought,

By unfrequented stream,

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