Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield'

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histies stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share up-tears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
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 starr'd:
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 mis'ry's brink,

Till wrenched of ev'ry stay but Heaven,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;

Peeped.-2 Shelter.-3 Dry, chapt, barren.

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!1

TO A MOUSE,

On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785.
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty,

Wi' bick'rin' brattle!"

I wad be laith' to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle.

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,
An' fellow-mortal.

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live;
A daimen icker" in a thraves

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,

And never miss 't.

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the wins are strewin'!
An' naething, now, to bigll a new ane,
O' foggage" green!

An' bleak December's wins ensuin',

Baith snell1 and keen!

1 When Burns first arrived in Edinburgh, the "Lounger," a weekly paper, edited by Henry Mackenzie, Esq., author of the "Man of Feeling," was in course of publication. In that periodical a whole number (the "Lounger for Saturday, December 9, 1786") was devoted to "An account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire ploughman," in which were given the address "To a Mountain Daisy," and an extract from the "Vision," as specimens of his poetry.

2 Sleek.-3 Cowering.-4 A short race.-5 Loth.-6 Plough-staff.—7 An ear of corn now and then.-8 A shock of corn. The rest.-10 Winds.-11 To build.-12 Aftergrass.-13 Bitter, biting.

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,

An' cozie' here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter pass'd
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble.
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,®
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men,
Gang aft a-gley,"

And lea'e us naught but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear.

LINES

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT,

A wild scene among the hills of Ouchtertyre.

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your watery haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,

1 Snugly.-2 Without.—3 Hold, home.-4 To endure.-5 The hoar frost.Not alone.-7 Off the right time.

8 "The verses to the Mouse, and Mountain Daisy, were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough."-Gilbert Burns.

Parent, filial, kindred ties,-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or beneath the shelt'ring rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace:
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:

But Man, to whom alone is given
A ray direct from pitying Heaven,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wandering swains,
Where the mossy rivulet strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might,

Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his powers you scorn;
Swiftly seek on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

14

SONNET.

WRITTEN JANUARY 25, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE

AUTHOR,

On hearing a thrush in a morning walk.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of Poverty and Care;
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee
I'll share.

VERSES

On seeing a wounded hare limp by me, which a fellow had just shot.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:
May never Pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever Pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains:

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest-
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom press'd.