' Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, The blood stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! More hard unkindness, unrelenting, • Vengeful malice unrepenting, '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, 'Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land! Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, With all the servile wretches in the rear, 'Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, '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 honour's lofty brow, The pow'rs you proudly own? 'Is there beneath love's noble name, 'Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 'To bless himself alone! 'Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasted honour turns away, 'Shunning soft pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs! 'Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 'She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast! Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, 'Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 'Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 'Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, • Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, The wretch, already crushed low I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, But deep this truth impress'd my mind Thro' all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind, The most resembles GoD, EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET." January I. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, I set me down to pass the time, While frosty winds blaw. in the drift, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, I tent less, and want less But hanker and canker, To see their cursed pride. II. It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't: David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a Volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ba', Has ay some cause to smile, A comfort this nae sma'; IV. What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal'? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. Ramsay. |