TO A MOUSE, On turning her up in her nest, with the Plough, November, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorrow man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve? What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimenicker in a thrave 's a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December win's ensuin, Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou'st turn'd out, for a' thy trouble But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Stili thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee; But, och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear, TO. A MOUNTAIN DAISY, On turning one down with the Plough, in WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maud shield: But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawnie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade; By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple Bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n, To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Ev'n thou who mourn'd the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,* To the Noble Duke of Athole. My Lord, I know your noble ear The lightly jumping glowrin trouts, Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, Wi' half my channel dry; Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly pictu resque and beautiful: but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs. |