COMPOSED IN SPRING

Inscribed on a Work of Hannah More's,

Presented to the Author by a Lady.1

THOU flatt'ring mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous donor;
Tho' sweetly female ev'ry part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart
Does both the sexes honour:
She show'd her taste refin'd and just,
When she selected thee;
Yet deviating, own I must,

For sae approving me:

But kind still I'll mind still

The giver in the gift;

I'll bless her, an' wiss her
A Friend aboon the lift.

Song, Composed in Spring.

Tune-"Jockey's Grey Breeks."

AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues :
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

Chorus.-And maun I still on Menie 2 doat,
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be.3

1 Not later than April 3, 1786, when Burns sent the piece to Mr Aiken, and spoke of publishing. (Scott Douglas.)

2 Menie is, probably, Jeanie, Miss Armour, and if this be so, Burns's passion for her was more genuine,

perhaps, than some critics have supposed.

This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamne.-R.B.

COMPOSED IN SPRING

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
And maun I still, &c.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,

Wi' joy the tentie

seedsman stalks;

But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.
And maun I still, &c.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,

The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev'ry thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, &c.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And o'er the moorlands whistles shill:
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.

Come winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging, bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still, &c.

· ⚫ grove.

b careful.

• shuts the opening in his fold.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

To a Mountain Daisy.1

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

WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoura

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,

The bonie 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 flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield b

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

a dust.

b shelter.

1 The mountain must have been a bosse verdâtre, as Mérimée calls the Tweedside hills. The "simple bard"

c barren.

was at this time entangled in unhappy and incongruous love affairs.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful 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 wrench'd of ev'ry 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 plough-share drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

TO RUIN

To Ruin.1

ALL hail, inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,

I see each aimèd dart;

For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning,
Round my devoted head.

And thou grim Pow'r by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh hear a wretch's pray'r!
Nor more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day-

My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face,

Enclasped, and grasped,

Within thy cold embrace!

1 An expression of amatory and financial melancholy at this unlucky period.