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! A GUID New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! | An' sweet an gracefu' she did ride, Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, For heels an' win'! When thou an' I were young and An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh, When thou was corn't, an' I was We took the road ay like a swallow: The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 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, Aboon the timmer; I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep In cart or car thou never reestit; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 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! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, And think na, my auld, trusty servan', A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane We've worn to crazy years thegither; 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. Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, | But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: Till crash! the cruel coulter past, That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! men EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. JANUARY, 1784. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond | To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To see how things are shar'd; 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' 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, In days when daisies deck the ground, On braes when we please, then, It's no in titles nor in rank; Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Think ye, that sic as you and I, Think ye, are we less blest than they, As hardly worth their while? Baith careless, and fearless, It's a' an idle tale! Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; An's thankfu' for them yet. 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! This life has joys for you and I; There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, It warms me, it charms me, And sets me a' on flame! Thou know'st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear! O hear my fervent pray'r; All hail, ye tender feelings dear! Long since, this world's thorny ways Fate still has blest me with a friend, It lightens, it brightens To meet with, and greet with O, how that name inspires my style! The ready measure rins as fine, Till ance he's fairly het; But lest then, the beast then, |