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,
I 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 scar.

• 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 win'

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 pitiless 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,

Stretched 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 crushèd 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.

THERE WAS A LAD.

TUNE - "Dainty Davie."

THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.

Robin was a rovin Boy,

Rantin rovin, rantin rovin;
Robin was a rovin Boy,

Rantin rovin Robin.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof,

Quo' scho, "wha lives will see the proof,

This waly boy will be nae coof,

I think we'll ca' him Robin.

He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma',

But ay a heart aboon them a';

He'll be a credit till us a',

We'll a' be proud o' Robin."

But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin."

"Guid faith," quo' scho, "I doubt you, Sir,
gar the lassies lie aspar,

Ye

But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,

So blessings on thee, Robin!"

Robin was a rovin Boy,

Rantin rovin, rantin rovin ;

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin.

1786.

THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL
IN THE NEW YEAR.

A GUID New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie :
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day,

Thou could hae gane like ony staggie
Out-owre the lay.