She lived unknown,- and few could know I travelled among unknown men, 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Among thy mountains did I feel And she I cherished turned her wheel Thy mourning showed, thy nights concealed And thine, too, is the last green field TO A MOUSE, ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle! Burns. I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,2 An' never miss 't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin; O' foggage green! An' bleak December's wind ensuin', Baith snell 4 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 Out thro' thy cell. That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole 6 the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch7 cauld! But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,1 An' leave us naught but grief an' pain, Still thou art blessed, compared with me! e'e An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH.- - Burns. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou 's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure 3 Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem! Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. 3 Dust. 1 Alone. 2 Wrong. Cauld blew the bitter, biting north Scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie 3 stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er. Such fate to suffering worth is given, To mis'ry's brink; Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink. 1 Peeped. 2 Shelter. 3 Barren. E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night One, 'midst the forests of the West, The Indian knows his place of rest, The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep,- One sleeps where southern vines are drest, He wrapt his colors round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. |