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.

2

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ;4
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',5

As e'er in tug

Aft thee an' I,

or tow? was drawn!

in aught hours gaun,
On guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

8

Thou never braindg't, an' fech'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' slypet12 owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,
An' threaten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog13 a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;

The steyest11 brae thou wad hae face't it;
Thou never lap,15 an' sten't,16 and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't17 awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ;

1 A broose is a race at a wedding.

2 That droops at the crupper. 3 Perhaps. 5 The near horse of the hindmost pair in the 6 Traces of hide. 7 Rope. 8 Plunged forward. 10 Fretted. 11 Rushy hillocks. 14 Steepest.

13 Manger.

16 Reared.

:

4 Short race. plough.

9 Pulled by fits. 12 Fell over.

15 Leaped.

17 Went at an even pace.

Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou has nurst:

They drew me thretteen' pund an' twa,
The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk2 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, 1785.7

WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie !

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle !s

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle !9

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!'

5 Spared.

3 Eighth part of a bushel. 6 Stretch.

7 A farm-servant, lately living, was driving the plough, which Burns held, when a mouse ran across the field. The man's first impulse was to rush after and kill it; but the poet stopped him, and soon turning thoughtful, the verses were conceived and born.

8 Hurry.

9 Instrument for clearing the plough.

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker1 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 big2 a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell3 an' 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' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,7
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men,
Gang aft a-gley,8

An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promis'd joy.

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!

1 An ear of corn now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves.

2 Build.

3 Bitter.

Without abiding place. 5 Endure. 6 Hoar-frost. 7 Thyself alone. 8 Wrong.

A WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you,
From seasons such as these ?-

Shakspeare.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,1
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,
Far south the lift,2

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,

Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths3 up-choked
Wild-eddying swirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,4

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning the doors an' winnocks" rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And thro' the drift, deep-lairing," sprattle,

Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing9 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,
An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd,

The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,

My heart forgets,

While pityless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain;

Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow, solemn, stole→

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
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!
See stern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below! Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,

With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!
Mark maiden-innocence a prey
To love-pretending snares,
This boasted Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs !
Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!
Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,