A daimen icker in a thrave

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 's a sma request :

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

But thou, beneath the random bield,
And never miss't!

O'clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

Unseen, alane.
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
O' soggage green!

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head
Baith snell and keen!

In humble guise ;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

And low thou lies!
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Thou thought to dwell,

Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

By love's simplicity betray'd,
Out through thy cell.

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Low i' the dust.
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a'thy trouble,

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
But house or hald,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

Unskilful he to note the card
An'cranreuch cauld!

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

And whelm him o'er!
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Gang aft a-gley,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,

By human pride or cunning driv'n,
For promis'd joy.

To mis’ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Still thou art blest, compard wi' me!

He, rujn'd, siok! The present only toircheth thee:

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, But, och! I backward cast my e'e

That fate is thine no distant date;
On prospects drear!
An' forward, though I canna see,

Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,
I guess an' fear.

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN

TAM O' SHANTER.

APRIL, 1786,

A TALE,

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckled breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth ;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted fortha

Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earthi

Thy lender form.

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke,

Gawin DOUGLAS.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame;
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gath’ring her brows like gath'ring storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he, fra Ayr, ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest' men and bonje tasses.)

O Tam! hads't thou but been sae wise,

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice !

A better never lifted leg,
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
A blethring, blustering, drunken blellum ; Despising wind, and rain, and fire ;
That frae November till October,

Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Ae market-day thou was na sober;

Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; That ilka melder, wi’ the miller,

Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Thou sat as long as thou had siller;

Lest bogles catch him unawares ;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,

Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,

By this time he was cross the ford,
Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Monday.

Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ;
She prophesy'd, that, late or soon,

And past the birks and meikle stane,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,

And through the whins, and by the cairn,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,

And near the thorn, aboon the well,
To think how monie counsels sweet,

Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
How monie lengthen'd sage advices,

Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The husband frae the wife despises !

The doubling storm roars through the woods ;
But to our tale: Ae market night,

The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Tam had got planted unco right;

Near and more near the thunders roll;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;

Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ;
And at his elbow, souter Johnny,

Through ilka bore the beams were glancing :
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony.

And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
'Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
They had been fou for weeks thegither.

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
And aye the ale was growing better:

Wi' usquabae, we'll face the Devil !
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious :

Fair play, he car'd na Deil's a boddle.
The souter tauld his queerest stories ;

But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d,
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
The storm without might rair and rustle,

She ventur'd forward on the light;
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

Warlocks and witches in a dance;
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy;

Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
As bees flee hame wi' lades of treasure,

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure :

Put life and mettle in their heels.
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,

A winnock-bunker in the east,
O'er a' the i!ls o' life victorious.

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
But pleasures are like poppies spread,

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ;

To gie them music was his charge:
Or, like the snow falls in the river,

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
A moment white-then melts for ever:

Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl.
Or, like the borealis race,

Coffins stood round like open presses,
That flit ere you can point their place;

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
Or, like the rainbow's lovely form,

And by some devilish cantrip slight,
Evanishing amid the storm.-

Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
Nae man can tether time or tide;

By which heroic Tam was able
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

To note upon the baly table,
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

Twa span lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
And sic a night he taks the road in,

A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

Five tomabawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;

Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; A garter, which a babe had strangled ;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
That night, a child might understand,

Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The Deil had business on his hand.

The grey hairs yet stack to the hef: ;

а

a

He
sang
wi' joy his former day,

If love for love thou wilt na gie,
He, weeping, wail'd his latter times;

At least be pity to me shown! But what he said it was nae play,

A thought ungentle canna be I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

The thought o' Mary Morison.