When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer; I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit; Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst, Monie a sair daurk we twa ha wrought, We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet. And think na, my auld, trusty servan', For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither; To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Qut thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, Gang aft a-gly, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 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, SHAKSPEARE. WHE Abiting Boreas, fell and doure, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 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, And thro' the drift, O' winter war, Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, What comes o' thee! Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 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 bestows! Or mad ambition's gory hand, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, |