X. Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn. XI. O Death! the poor man's dearest friend A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, WHEN biting Boreás, fell and doure, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd, Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, What comes o' thee? Where wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring wing, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone, from your savage homes exil'd, 'The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole : “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, Wo, want, and murder, o'er a land! "Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, With all the servile wretches, in the rear, 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 Honor's lofty brow, The pow'rs you proudly own? 104 BURNS'S POEMS. *Mark maiden innocence, a prey Regardless of the tears, and unavailing prayers! She strains your infant to her joyless breast, "O ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Stretch'd on his straw, he lays himself to sleep, The wretch already crushed low I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer And hail'd the morning with a cheer, But deep this truth impress'd my mind Thro' all his works abroad, The heart, benevolent and kind, The most resembles God. THE wintry west extends his blast, Or, the stormy north sends driving forth While tumbling brown, the burn comes down And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. II. "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"* The joyless winter day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May! The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join, The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! III. Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest- they must be best, # Dr. Young. |