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's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' 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 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,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men,
Gang aft a-gley,

An' leave us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my ee

On prospects drear!

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

THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE,

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel in the New Year.

A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie !
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day

Thou could hae gane like onie staggie
Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie,
A bonnie gray :

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
An' set weel down a shapely shank,
As e'er tread yird;

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like onie bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,

An' fifty mark;

Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,

An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie:
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie ;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.

That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride;
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!

Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An' wintle like a saumont-coble,

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,
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,
An' tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh,

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But every tail thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;

But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gart them whaizle;

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

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,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith an' power,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.

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:
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a':
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' monie an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And thinkna, 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;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may noble rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

Born in peculiar Circumstances of Family Distress.
Sweet Floweret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form;

And gane, alas! the sheltering tree,

Should shield thee frae a storm.