1 wool. He gaped wide, but naething spak. 'O thou, whase lamentable face 7 8 an' steal, At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For monie a year come thro' the sheers; So wives will gie them bits o' bread, An' bairns greet 10 for them when they're dead. 11 'My poor toop 11-lamb, my son an' heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care! An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins 12 in his breast! 5 ways. 9 forefathers. An' warn him, what I winna name; But ay keep mind to moop3 an' mell1, 'And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your Mither, 'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather". This said, poor Mailie turned her head, FROM AN EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD I am nae Poet, in a sense, But just a Rhymer like, by chance, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs1 your grammars? A set o' dull, conceited hashes 3, 5 An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 6 Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk' o' Allan's glee, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessing 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' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 6 4 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! An ear of corn now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves. 5 holding. • endure. 2 build. 'hoar-frost. But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane1, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! But, och! I backward cast my e'e An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. Inscried to R. Aiken, Esq. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The short but simple annals of the Poor.--Gray. My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! No mercenary bar! his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh3; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; 1 thyself alone. 2 3 awry. whistling sound. |