Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, I thank thee, Author of this op'ning day, Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share ON SENSIBILITY. TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONORED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. SENSIBILITY! how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; Fairest flower, behold the lily, Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow; Thrill the deepest notes of wo. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie! O, what a panic's in thy breastie! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I truly sorrow 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 blessin wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December win's ensuir, Baith snell and 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 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, compar'd wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear' TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To soare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring 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, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust; Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suff'ring worth is giv'n, To mis'ry's brink ; Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Ev'n thou who mourn'd the daisy's fate, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight |