THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR SALUTATION. 3333 53 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. Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, For heels an' win'! When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skrieigh 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 ay like a swallow: At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed; But ev'ry 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', Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, In cart or car thou never reestit; 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, The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, Yet here to crazy age we're brought, And think na, my auld, trusty servan', A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane We've worn to crazy years thegither; Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 'Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows! 'See stern oppression's iron grip, 'Or mad ambition's gory hand, 'Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 'Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! 'Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, "Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, "The parasite empoisoning her ear, 'With all the servile wretches in the rear, 'Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; 'And eyes the simple rustic hind, "Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 'A creature of another kind, 'Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 'Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below ! 'Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 'With lordly honour's lofty brow, The pow'rs you proudly own? 'Is there, beneath love's noble name, "This boasted honour turns away, 6 Shunning soft pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 'She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 'And with a mother's fear shrinks at the rocking blast! 'Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, 'Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 'Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 'Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call, 'Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 'While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 'Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 'Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! |