A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' leave us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel in the New Year. A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! Thou could hae gane like onie staggie Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride, Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, That day ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, When thou an' I were young and skeigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gart them whaizle; Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! On guid March weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer; I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae face't it: My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a': That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' monie an anxious day, I thought Yet here to crazy age we're brought, And thinkna, my auld, trusty servan', A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane We've worn to crazy years thegither; To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may noble rax your leather, ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, Born in peculiar Circumstances of Family Distress. And ward o' mony a prayer, November hirples o'er the lea, And gane, alas! the sheltering tree, Should shield thee frae a storm. |