When Phoebus gies a short-lived glower
Far south the lift,

Dim-darkening through the flaky shower,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl,

stare

sky

Or, through the mining outlet bocked, vomited Down headlong hurl.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

drooping

beating

sinking

scramble

cliff

Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing,
And close thy e'e?

[chattering

Even you, on murdering errands toiled,
Lone from your savage homes exiled,
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cot spoiled,
My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain
Slow, solemn, stole :-

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shews
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,

Vengeful malice unrepenting,

Than heaven-illumined

bestows! 1

man on brother man

"See stern Oppression's iron grip,
Or mad Ambition's gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Wo, Want, and Murder o'er a land!
F'en in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,

1 Blow, blow, thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude....
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky;

Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot....

- SHAKSPEARE.

How pampered Luxury, Flattery 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 glittering show, A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefined,

Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile

below.

"Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The powers you proudly own? Is there, beneath Love's noble name, Can harbour dark the selfish aim, To bless himself alone! Mark maiden innocence a prey To love-pretending snares:This boasted Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers! Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

"Oh 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 clamorous call,

Stretched on his straw, he lays himself to sleep, While through 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 undeservèd blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hailed the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impressed my mind

Through all His works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles GOD.

YOUNG PEGGY.

TUNE- Last time I came o'er the Muir.

During the autumn of 1785, Burns had an opportunity of seeing and studying a being in a great measure new to him. -a young accomplished lady of the upper classes. Miss Margaret (usually called in old Scottish style, Miss Peggy) K— was the daughter of a land-proprietor in Carrick: Burns met her at the house of a Mauchline friend, where she was paying a visit. The lively conversation of the young lady, which he interpreted into wit, her youth and beauty, deeply impressed the susceptible poet, and in a spirit of respect suitable to her rank and apparent destiny in life, he made her the subject of a song, which he sent to her enclosed in a letter. The song was first published after the poet's death.

YOUNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning:
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each freshening flower.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has graced them;