Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm. Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; But thou beneath the random bield Q' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!- Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv❜n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine no distant date; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO RUIN... འ ALL hail, inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then low'ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Tho' thick'ning and black'ning, II. And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, My weary heart its throbbings cease, No fear more, no tear more, TO MISS L—, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS As a New Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787. AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n. No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts Our sex with guile and faithless love I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, II. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And muckle they may grieve ye : For care and trouble set your thought, III. I'll no say, men are villains a"; IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. Ay free, aff han' your story tell, Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can |