SCOTISH POEMS. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, N TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! its no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm, 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, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To misery's brink, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND'. May 1786. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end But how the subject-theme may gang; Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 1 Mr. A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool: the son of Robert Aiken, Esq. I'll no say, men are villains a' ; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked: But och, mankind are unco weak, And little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, Its rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Ay free, aff han' your story tell, The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, |