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THE AULD FARMER'S
NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION
HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE,
ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEWYEAR.
A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Thou could hae gane like onie staggie
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
As e'er tread yird;
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
An' fifty mark;
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye ne'er was donsie ;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide,
Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an' win!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'.
When thou an' I were young and skeigh,
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
An' ca't thee mad.
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,
The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
O' saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,
On guid March weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither.
Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit,
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap
Aboon the timmer;
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae face't it:
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,
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
And thinkna, my auld, trusty servan',
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,
Wi' sma' fatigue.
TO A MOUSE,
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which maks thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve;
'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
And never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,