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But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a':
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
And think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin, For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
TO A MOUSE
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
A daimen-icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
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,
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,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear !
ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Past a' remead;
The last, sad cape-stane of his woes;
It's no the loss o' warl's gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,