I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, And never miss 't. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's wins ensuin', Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' coziel 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, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane," An lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear.P d Winds. g Bitter, biting. k Hold, home. n Not alone. e To build. h Snugly. 7 To endure. o Off the right iine. p'The verses to the Mouse, and Mountain Daisy, were com posed on the occasions mentioned, and while the Author was holding th plough.'-Gilbert Burns. LINES ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT, A wild Scene among the Hills of Ouchtertyre. The eagle from the cliffy brow, But Man, to whom alone is giv'n |