TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.1

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark,2 companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield3

O' clod, or stane,

Adorns the histie1 stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sunward 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,

Low i' the dust.

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

1 The Daisy grew in the field next to that in which the plough had turned up the mouse's nest.

2 I have seldom met with an image more truly pastoral than that of the lark in the second stanza. Such strokes as these mark the pencil of the poet, which delineates Nature with the precision of intimacy, yet with the delicate colouring of beauty and taste.-H. MACKENZIE, in "The Lounger," No. 97. 4 Dry.

3 Shelter.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

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,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

TO RUIN.1

ALL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy eruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,
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
Round my devoted head.

And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!

I have here enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my productions. I am a good deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart which, as the elegantly melting Gray says, "Melancholy has marked for her own."-To Mr. Kennedy, April 20, 1786.

When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day:

My weary heart its throbbing cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face,
Enclasped, and grasped

Within thy cold embrace!

TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 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
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear Maid, each lover
An Edwin still to you!

prove

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.1
MAY, 1786.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps, it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:

1 Andrew Aiken, of Ayr, son of the friend to whom Burns inscribed "The Cotter's Saturday Night."

1 Who.

For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

I'll no say, men are villains a';
The real, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:

But, Och! mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha' fa'2 in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith3 hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff-han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek" thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard o' concealing;
But, Och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justify'd by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

2 Fall. 3 Poverty. + Off-hand.

5 Peep.

6 Flame.