Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this op'ning day,

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share

ON SENSIBILITY.

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONORED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.

SENSIBILITY! how charming,

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure,

Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

Thrill the deepest notes of wo.

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie!

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need nae start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickerin brattle!

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

I truly sorrow 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!

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,
And never miss't!

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

An' bleak December win's ensuir,

Baith snell and 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 monie a weary nibble!
Now thou'st 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,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best laid scheme 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'

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN
APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;

To soare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie Lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' speckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, 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 bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie 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;

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;
Unskillful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

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

Such fate to suff'ring 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'd 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.