Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH. WEE, EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickerin brattle 1! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 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, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, 1 hurry. And never miss 't! 2 hand-stick for clearing the plough. An ear of corn now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 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 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, compared wi' me! But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool2? Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, But, with a frater-feeling strong, Is there a man whose judgment clear, Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear, The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn, and wise to know, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name! Reader, attend-whether thy soul Know prudent, cautious self-control 1 bashful. 2 submit tamely. |