(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind, To miss one favour which their neighbours

find:)

Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved:

I mark'd his action when his infant died,

And his old neighbour for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek,

Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning,—though my clerk agreed,
If death should call him, Ashford might suc-
ceed;

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,

In sturdy boys, to virtuous labours train'd;

Pride in the power that guards his country's

coast,

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride in a life that Slander's tongue defied,— In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there: I see no more those white locks, thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honour'd head; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force), are there.
But he is bless'd, and I lament no more,
A wise good man, contented to be poor.

ROBERT BURNS.

Born, 1759; Died, 1796.

TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie 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 flowers our gardens yield,

High shel'tring 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 clad,
Thy snowy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lift'st thy unassuming head
In humble guise :

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

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 given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,

Till wrench'd of every stay but heaven,

He, ruin'd, sink !

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

JOHN ANDERSON.

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent:
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

My loved, my honour'd, much-respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I

ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; a
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary o'er the moor his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shadow of an aged tree;

The' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.

Belyved the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentiee rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bran new
gown,

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

b

Rushing sound. Stagger. Fluttering. By and by.

e Cautious.