On turning her up in her neft, with the Plough,.

November 1785.

WEE, fleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie!

O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na ftart awae fae hafty;

Wi' bickering brattle ! !

I wad be laith to run an' chase thee

Wi' murd'sing patile!"

I'm truly forry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's focial union,

An' juftifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee ftartle,

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ;): What then? poor beaftie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a fma' request ;

Thy wee-bit housie too in ruin ! It's filly wa's the win's are ftrewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds enfuin,

Baith fnell an' keen!

Thou faw the fields laid bare an' waste,

An' weary Winter comin faft,

An' cozie here, beneath the blaft;

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash the cruel Coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o'leaves and ftibble, Has caft thee monie a wearie 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 thy lane,

In proving forefight 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 fee,

I guess and fear!

A

WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, wherefoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitylefs jtorm!
How fball your houfelefs heads, and unfed fides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggednefs, defend you
From feafons fuch as thefe

WHEN

SHAKESPEARE.

HEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp fhivers thro' the leaf-lefs bow'r ; When Phabus gies a fhort-liv'd glow'r,

Far fouth the lift,

Dim dark'ning thro' the flaky fhow'r,
Or whirling drift.

Ae night the ftorm the fteeples rocked, Poor Labour sweet in fleep was locked, While burns, wi' fnawy wreeths up-choaked,

Wild-eddying fwirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurt.

Lift'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, fprattle,

Beneath a fcar.

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing! That in the merry months of Spring, Delighted me to hear thee fing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing ?
An clofe thy e'e ?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,.
Lone from your favage homes exil'd,

The blood-ftain'd rooft, and fleep-cote spoil'd,

My heart forgets,

While pitylefs the tempeft wild.

Sore on you beats.

Now Phabe, in her midnight reign, Dark-muff'd, view'd the dreary plain; Still crouding thoughts, a penfive train,

Rofe in my foul,

When on my ear this plaintive ftrain,

Slow-folemn, ftole.-

• Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!

And freeze, thou bitter biting froft!