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THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.

Wi'aiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

A GUID New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! | An' sweet an gracefu' she did ride,
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an'
knaggie,
I've seen the day,
Thou could hae gane like ony staggie
Out-owre the lay.

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Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,
An' wintle like a saumont-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble

For heels an' win'!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young and
skeigh,

An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh,
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an'
skrieigh
An' tak the road!
Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was
mellow,

We took the road ay like a swallow:
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their
mettle,
An' gart them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

On guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither.

Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit,

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

Wi' pith an' pow'r, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,

An' threaten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap,

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae face't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a': Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' monie an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!

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

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

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.

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

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Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, | But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,

In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an'

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!

men

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EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.

JANUARY, 1784.

WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond | To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

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It's hardly in a body's pow'r,
To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd;
How best o' chiels are whyles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands
rant,

And ken na how to wair't: But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: 'Mair spier na, nor fear na,' Auld age ne'er mind a feg; The last o't, the warst o't, Is only but to beg.

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could mak us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste

Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal'?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in making muckle, mair:
It's no in books, it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye's the part aye,
That maks us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess !

Baith careless, and fearless,
Of either heav'n or hell!
Esteeming, and deeming

It's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,

An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;
They mak us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Tho' losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flatt'ry I detest)

This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy;
And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name;
It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a' on flame!
O all ye pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Her dear idea brings relief
Deprive my soul of rest,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,

O hear my fervent pray'r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

Till ance he's fairly het;
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An rin' an unco fit:

But lest then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

THE LAMENT,

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR.

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