But thou beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

5 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!

6 Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret 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.

7 Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

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

8 Such fate to suffering worth is given,

Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,

Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruin'd, sink!

9 Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!

TO RUIN.

1 ALL hail inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolved, despairing eye,

I see each aimèd dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then lowering, and pouring,

The storm no more I dread; Though thick'ning and black'ning Round my devoted head.

2 And thou grim Power, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford,

Oh hear a wretch's prayer!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;

My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?

No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and graspèd
Within thy cold embrace :

TO MISS LOGAN,1

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787.

1 AGAIN the silent wheels of Time
Their annual round have driven,
And you, though scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer heaven.

2 No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

3 Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charged, perhaps, too true;

But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

'Miss Logan:' sister of Major Logan, a retired military officer in Ayr.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.1

1 I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

2 Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end's attain'd;
And a' your views may come to naught,
Where every nerve is strain'd.

3 I'll no say, men are villains a' ;
The real, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked;

But, och mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!

4 Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer:

Young friend:' Andrew Aiken, son of Robert Aiken.

He became

British consul in Riga.

A man may hae an honest heart,
Though poortith hourly stare him ;
A man may tak a neibour's part,
Yet hae nac cash to spare him.

5 Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony ;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;

But keek through every other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection,

6 The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt the illicit rove,
Though naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But, och it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

7 To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by every wile
That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant ;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

8 The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order;