10 The sma', droop-rumplet hunter cattle, Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 11 Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 12 Thou never braing't an' fetch't, an' fliskit, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 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 14 In cart or car thou never reestit ; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 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, 16 Mony a sair daurk we twa hac wrought Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 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; Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLough, NOVEMBER 1785. 1 WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 2 I'm truly sorry man's dominion 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; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss 't! 4 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 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, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, And cranreuch cauld! 7 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, And lea'e us naught but grief and pain, 8 Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! On prospects drear! And forward, though I canna see, WINTER NIGHT. 'Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, SHAKSPEARE. 1 WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim-darkening through the flaky shower, 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, 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, |