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The eagle from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels ;
But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane,-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways,
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might,
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH IN A MORNING WALK.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter, mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow;

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content, with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day,

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.

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WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie !
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need nae start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickerin brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorrow man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
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 win's ensuin,
Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' 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 monie a weary nibble!
Now thou'st 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 scheme o' mice an' men,
Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The epresent only toucheth thee;
But, och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;

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

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie Lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, 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

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle elad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread
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

VOL. I.

K

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'd 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.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,*

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My lord, I know your noble ear
Wo ne'er assails in vain:
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste iny foamy streams
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly jumping glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,

If, in their random, wanton spouts,

They near the margin stray;

* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful: but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.

If, hapless chance, they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,

They're left the whit'ning stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As Poet B**** came by,
That, to a Bard, I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry;
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Ev'n as I was, he shor'd me;
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,
I am, altho' I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonie spreading bushes;
Delighted doubly then, my lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen monie a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober lav'rock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire ;
The gowdspink music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir;

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her looks of yellow :

This too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm;

And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form;

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat,
From prone descending show'rs.

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