I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,

And never miss 't.

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the winsd are strewin'!
An' naething, now, to bige a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's wins ensuin',
Baith snells and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,

An' coziel 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 monie a weary nibble!
Now thou 's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,k

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuchm cauld!

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

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.P

d Winds.

g Bitter, biting. k Hold, home.

n Not alone.

e To build.

h Snugly.

7 To endure.

o Off the right iine.

p'The verses to the Mouse, and Mountain Daisy, were com posed on the occasions mentioned, and while the Author was holding th plough.'-Gilbert Burns.

LINES

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT,

A wild Scene among the Hills of Ouchtertyre.
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties,-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or beneath the shelt'ring rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace:
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels :

But Man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if Man's superior might,
Dare invade your native right,

Go live poor wanderer of the Wood and field,

The bitter little that of life remains

No more the thickening brakes and verdent plains To the shall home,or food, or pastime yield