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TO' A MOUSE,
On turning her up in her nest, with the Plough,
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
Wi' bickerin brattle ?
Wi? murdoring pattle ?
Which makes thee startle
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve? What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker 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!
O foggage green;
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,
Gang aft a-gley,
For promis'd joy.
On prospects drear!
A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
On turning one down with the Plough, in
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem;
Thou bonie gem.
Wi' spreckled breast,
The purpling East.
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
woods and wa's maud shield : But thou, beneath the random bield
O'clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field,
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,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet fow'ret of the rural shade; By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Sach is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er.
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
To mis’ry's brink,
He, ruin'd, sink !
Ev'n thou who mourn'd the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom.
HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,*
To the Noble Duke of Athole.
My Lord, I know your noble ear
Wo ne'er assails in vain;
Your humble slave complain,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly jumping glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
They near the margin stray ;
I'm scorching up so shallow,
In gasping death to wallow.
As Poet B**** came by,
Wi' half my channel dry ;
* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly pictu, resque and beautiful : but their effect is much impair. ed by the want of trees and shrubs.