Yet here to crazy age we 're brought,
Wi' something yet.

An' think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin,

For my last fow,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane

Laid by for you.

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,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.

ΤΟ Α

MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH

THE PLOUGH, NOV. 1785.

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

Wi' bickerin 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

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow mortal!

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! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's 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 and 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 and pain,
For promis'd joy,

Still 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!

A

WINTER NIGHT.

"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, "That bide the pelting of this pityless storm! "How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, "Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you, "From seasons such as these.".

SHAKESPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; When Phabus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,

Far south the lift,

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,

Or whirlin drift.

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked; Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,