Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,

And cozie1 here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble
Has cost thee many a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hauld,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch3 cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my ce
On prospects drear!

And forward, though I canna see,
I guess and fear.

1 Comfortable.

2 Endure.

3 Hoar-frost.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY
THAT DISORDER.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortured gums alang;
And through my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics knaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But taee-thou hell o' a' diseases,

Aye mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets kickle,'
To see me loup ;2
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle*
Were in their doup.

Of a' the numerous human dools, s

4

Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 5

1 The mirthful child-
ren laugh.

Sad sight to see!

2 Jump.

3 Troubles.

4 Harvests.
5 Grave-earth.

Flax used to be cleaned and straightened by drawing it many times through a mass of sharp steel spikes fixed in a bench, points uppermost. This was called a heckle.

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,

Thou bear'st the grec.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' misery yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe thick,

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland weal

A towmond's toothache!

GREEN GROW THE RASHES,

O!

GREEN grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!

There's nought but care on every han',
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An 'twere na for the lasses, O?

The warl'ly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a canny1 hour at een,
My arms about my dearie, 0,
And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie,2 O.

For you sae douce,3 ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw
He dearly loved the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,

Sin' auld lang syne.

1 Happy, lucky-quiet.

2 Topsy-turvy. 3 Grave,

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine:

But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fere,1

And gies a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught?

For auld lung syne!

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

The chorus of this song is old; but the two stanzas are Burns's

CHORUS.

Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early;

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering3 in the thorn,
A' day they fare but sparely;

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

1 Friend.

2 Draught.

3 Shivering.