And think na, my auld, trusty servan', A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which maks 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 wins are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 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, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleery dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, Gang aft a-gly, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 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. A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches. wheresoe'er you are, WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Far south the litt, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, Or whirling drift: Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar. 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 cow'r thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exil'd, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phabe, in her midnight reign, Dark muff'd, view'd the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole 'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 'Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man be 'See stern oppression's iron grip, 'Or mad ambition's gory hand, [stows! 'Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 'Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! 'Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 'How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, 'With all the servile wretches in the rear, 'Looks o'er proud property, extended wide 'And eyes the simple rustic hind, 'Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 'A creature of another kind, 'Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 'Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below: 'Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 'With lordly honour's lofty brow, 'The pow'rs you proudly own? 'Is there, beneath love's noble name, 'Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, "To bless himself alone! 'Mark maiden-innocence a prey 'To love-pretending snares, This boasted honour turns away, Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 'Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs! 'Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 'She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 'And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock'ing blast! 'Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, 'Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 'Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 'Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 'Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, 'Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 'sleep, 'While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 'Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty 'heap! |