At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle : But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle; Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. Thou was a noble fittie-lan", As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! On guid March weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer; I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit ; Then stood to blaw But just thy step a wee thing hastit, ; My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’; Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund anʼ twa, Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought! An' monie an anxious day I thought Yet here to crazy age were brought, And think na, my auld, trusty servan' A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax you leather, TO A MOUSE. On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, No vember, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? paar beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave I'll 'S a sma' request: get a blessin wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 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 Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreugh cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, SHAKESPEARY WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar. |