We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether

To some hain'd rig,

Where ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
O what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

IO

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, 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!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell an' keen!

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Thou saw the fields laid bare and 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 mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's 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,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But oh! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear!

An' forward tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

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MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose agèd step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years.
And hoary was his hair.

'Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?' Began the rev'rend sage;

'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth with me to mourn
The miseries of man.

'The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride-
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev'ry time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

'O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!

Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force give nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

'Look not alone on youthful prime.

Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right;

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want, oh! ill-match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

'A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

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But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land
All wretched and forlorn,

Thro' weary life this lesson learn—
That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn-
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

'See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,

Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful tho' a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

'If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,

By nature's law design'd,

Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

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If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty, or scorn?

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Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?

'Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;

This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor oppressèd honest man.
Had never sure been born,

IIad there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn!

So

'O Death, the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my agèd limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn.'

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE modest crimson-tippèd flow'r,
Thou 's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem :

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward springing, blythe to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early humble birth:

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield,

But thou, beneath the random bield

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

O'clod or stane,

Unseen, alane.

ΙΟ

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