And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 't is He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord - its various tone, Each spring its various bias : Then at the balance let's be mute, What's done we partly may compute, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 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, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, A WINTER NIGHT. "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, SHAKESPEARE. HEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Far south the lift, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle, |