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, 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, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! But, och! I backward cast my ee On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, Shakspeare. WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle And thro' the drift, O' winter war, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, While pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, 'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows! See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, 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. The pow'rs you proudly own? Is there, beneath love's noble name, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? Affliction's 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, But deep this truth impress'd my mind- The heart, benevolent and kind, The most resembles God. |