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 mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, SHAKSPEARE. WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 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, O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! [stows! Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man be See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 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, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs! Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer And hail'd the morning with a cheer, But deep this truth impress'd my mind- The heart, benevolent and kind, The most resembles God. EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A Brother Poet'. January WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, 1 David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect. |