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Thou layeft them, with all their cares,

In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'ft them off

With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;

But long ere night cut down it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

30

TO A

MOUNTAIN DAISY,

On turning, one down, with the Plough, in April 1786.

1

WEE, modeft, crimson-tipped flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the ftoure

Thy flender ftem.

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas!

Alas! its no thy neebor fweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet!

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' fpreckl'd breast,

When upward-fpringing, blythe, to greet

The purpling Eaft.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet chearfully thou glinted forth

Amid the ftorm,

Scarce rear'd above the Parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our Gardens yield, High fhelt'ring woods and wa's maun fhield;

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or ftane,

Adorns the hiftie ftibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There,

There, in thy fcanty mantle clad, Thy fnawie bofom fun-ward fpread, Thou lifts thy unaffuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artlefs Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural fhade! By Love's fimplicity betray'd,

And guileless truft,

Till fhe, like thee, all foil'd, is laid

Low i' the duft.

Such is the fate of fimple Bard,

On life's rough ocean lucklefs ftarr'd!

Unfkilful he to note the card

Of prudent Lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such

L

Such fate to fuffering Worth is giv'n,

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

To Mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry ftay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, fink!

Ey'n thou who mourn'ft the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no diftant date; Stern Ruin's plough-fhare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

TO

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