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10 The sma', droop-rumplet hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle
And gar't them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.

11 Thou was a noble fittie-lan',

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,
In guid March weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.

12 Thou never braing't an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, And spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

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Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.

13 When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, And threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

14 In cart or car thou never reestit;

The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it;
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa'.

15 My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've selt awa'

That thou hast nurst:

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

16 Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought
And wi' the weary warl' fought!
And mony an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

17 And think na, my auld trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less deservin',
And thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fow,

A heapit stimpart I'll reserve ane,
Laid by for you.

18 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 PLOUGHI, NOVEMBER 1785.

1 WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

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

2 I'm truly sorry man's dominion.
Has broken Nature's social union,

And justifies that ill opinion

Which maks thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

3 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!

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

And bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell and keen!

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

And cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash the cruel coulter pass'd

Out through thy cell.

6 That wee bit heap o' leaves and 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,

And cranreuch cauld!

7 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,

And lea'e us naught but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

8 Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear!

And forward, though I canna see,

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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.

1 WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers through the leafless bower;
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glower
Far south the lift,

Dim-darkening through the flaky shower,
Or whirling drift:

2 Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd, Poor Labour sweet in sleep was lock'd, While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-chok'd, Wild-eddying swirl,

Or through the mining outlet bock'd,

Down headlong hurl.

3 Listening the doors and winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scaur.

4 Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cower thy chitt 'ring wing,
And close thy e'e?

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