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Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
O' a' the num'rous human dools,
The tricks o' knaves, or fashd o' fools,
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel',
In gore a shoe-thick,
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A towmond's Tooth-ache!
TO A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,
BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF DISTRESS.
SWEET flow'ret, pledge o' meiklek love,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
The greater. Fools.
Laugh. " Leap, jump.
wo A board in which are driven a number of sharp iron pins,
used for dressing hemp, flax, &c.
z Bad harvests. b Stool of repentance.
a Foolish bargains. c Laid in the grave.
e The victory. fRow.
November hirples' o'er the lea,
May He, the friend of woe and want,
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
And from thee many a parent stem
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
On turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786.
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Alas! it's not thy neebor sweet!
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
Creeps, or limps.
m Acute pains.
q Not. r Wet, wetness.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting North
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie" stibble-field,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
But now the share up-tears 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 suffering worth is giv❜n,
"Dry, chapt, barren.
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
TO A MOUSE,
On turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough,
WEE, sleekit," cow'rin'," tim'rous beastie,
1 wad be laithy to rin an' chase thee,
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
thy poor earth-born companion,
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve :
'S a sma' request:
When Burns first arrived in Edinburgh, the 'Lounger,' a weekly paper, edited by Henry Mackenzie, Esq. author of the 'Man of Feeling,' was in course of publication. In that periodical a whole number (the Lounger for Saturday, December 9, 1786,') was devoted to An account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire ploughman,' in which were given the address To a Mountain Daisy, and an extract from the Vision,' as specimens of his poetry.
A short race.
u Sleek, w Cowering.
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,
And never miss 't.
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
An' bleak December's wins ensuin',
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' cozieh here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
To tholel 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,
c The rest.
m The hoar frost.
I guess an' fear.P
g Bitter, biting.
k Hold, home.
n Not alone.
o Off the right iine.
p'The verses to the Mouse, and Mountain Daisy, were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the Author wa holding th plough.'-Gilbert Burns.