Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn. A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh! what crowds in every land Are wretched and forlorn ; Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, To give him leave to toil; If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave Why was an 'independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to Or why has man the will and power Yet, let this not too much, my son, The poor, oppressed, honest man, O death! the poor man's dearest friend, TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, My Mary, dear departed shade! Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.-ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, When upward springing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie 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 artless Maid, By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er ! Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO A MOUSE, On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, Wee, sleekit, cowerin, timorous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve; E |