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Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
While pityless the tempest wild
Now Phoche, in her midnight reign,
When on my ear this plaintive strain,
'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows!
See stern Oppression's iron grip,
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! 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!
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour's lofty brow,
To love-pretending snares,
O ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
But deep this truth impress'd my mind — Thro' all His works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.