TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
NOVEMBER, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering 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, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave

'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 win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

An' weary winter comin' fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

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

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That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony 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,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd 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!

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tippéd. flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem.

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonny gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonny Lark, companion meet,

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckled breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

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The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

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

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield,
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

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

But now the share uptears 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 giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

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

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

TUNE-"Hey tuttie tattie."

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

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