Then age and want, O, ill-match'd pair! Show Man was made to mourn. A few seem favourites of fate, Yet, think not all the rich and great But, oh! what crowds in ev'ry land Thro' weary life this lesson learn, Many and sharp the numʼrous ills Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; ! And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave - E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to Or why has man the will and pow'r Yet, let not this too much, my son, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense O death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow But, oh! a blest relief to those TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. EE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Scarce rear'd above thy parent-earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield O' clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless Maid, By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple Bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, To mis'ry's brink, Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight |