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 blessin' 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.

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!

A Winter Night

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?

SHAKESPEARE.

HEN biting Boreas, fell and dour,

WHE

Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;

When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,

Far south the lift,

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,

Wild-eddying swirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,

Beneath a scaur.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing

An' close thy e'e?

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

The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,
My heart forgets,

While pityless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow, solemn, stole:

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!

Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting,

Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows!

"See stern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,

How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;

And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!

"Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?

Is there, beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!
Mark maiden-innocence a prey
To love-pretending snares,
This boasted Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs!
Perhaps this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking
blast!

"Oh ye who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low, By cruel Fortune's undeservèd blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;

A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress'd my mind-
Thro' all His works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.

The Lament

O

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A
FRIEND'S AMOUR

Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself,
And sweet AFFECTION prove the spring of woe!

THOU pale Orb that silent shines
While care-untroubled mortals sleep,
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,
And wanders here to wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream,

I joyless view thy rays adorn
The faintly-marked, distant hill:
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!

Ah! must the agonising thrill

For ever bar returning peace!

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