Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

ROBERT BURNS

WEE modest, crimson-tipped 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 bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
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 flowers our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskillful 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 wrenched of every 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 plowshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

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

WEE

TO A MOUSE

ROBERT BURNS

EE, 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, whyles, 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 mis't!

Y

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 and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter coming' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,

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

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' leave us naught but grief and 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.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

MY

ROBERT BURNS

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the poor. — Gray.

"Y lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays: With honest pride I scorn each selfish end;

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aikin in a cottage would have been: Oh! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh: The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree:

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro'

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,