TO A MOUSE, On turning ber up in ber Nest, with the Plough, November, 1785. WEE, fleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, (), what a panic's in thy breaftie! Thou need na fart awa fo haty, ohne Wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chafe thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly forry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's focial union, An' juftifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee ftantle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! · 'Í DOUBT I DOUBT na, whyfes, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beaflie, thou maun live! 2 A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a fma' request: I'll get a bleffin wi' the lave, An' never mifs't! THY wee-bit bousie, too, in ruin! It's filly wa's the win's are firewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, foggage green! An' bleak December's winds enfuin, Baith fnell an' keen THOU faw the fields laid bare an' wafte, An' weary Winter comin faft, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash the cruel coulter paft Out thro' thy cell. THAT Wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has coft thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But houfe or hald, To thole the Winter's fleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! BUT, Moufie, thou art no the lane, In proving foresight may be vain : The beft-laid fchemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still thou art bleft, compar'd wi' me! The prefent only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward caft my e'e, On profpects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That hide the pelting of this pity less storm! How shall your bouseless heads, and unfed sidɩs, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you From seasons such as these SHAKESPEARE. WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Far fouth the lift, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky fhow'r, Or whirling drift. AE night the Storm the steeples rocked, Poor Labour fweet in fleep was locked, While burns, wi' fnawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. LIST'NING, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or filly fheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, Beneath a fear, ILK happing bird, wee, helpfefs thing! That, in the merry months o' fpring, Delighted me to hear thee fing, What comes o' thee? Whare |