The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray; But very different was their speed, I wot One of the sinners gallop'd on Light as a bullet from a gun; The other limp'd as if he had been shot. ONE saw the VIRGIN Soon-peccavi cried― Made fit with saints above to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, "How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim [broke, "You lazy lubber?"— "Odds curse it!" cried the other, "tis no joke: "My feet, once hard as any rock, "Are now as soft as blubber. "Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear- How 'tis that you are not in pain; "What Pow'r hath work'd a wonder for your "Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, [toes; "Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, "Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes? "Why," cried the other grinning, "you must "That, just before I ventur❜d on my journey, "To walk a little more at ease, то A MOUNTAIN DAISY, On turning one down with the Plough, in April 1786. BY BURNS. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! its no thy neebor sweet The bonie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet 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 The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share up tears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, By love's simplicity 'betray'd, And guiltless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd; Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering Worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striv❜n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To Mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date: |