In cart or car thou never reestit ; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it; Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, Then stood to bław ; 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, 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 were 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 you leather, TO A MOUSE. On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,, Wi' bickering brattle! 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 winds 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 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' cranreugh 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! 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. WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, SHAKESPEARM WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 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, O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, 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 pitiless, the tempest wild. Sore on you beats. Now Phobe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! 'Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, 'Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows! Or mad Ambition's gory hand,. 'Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, |