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TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped dow'r,
Thy slender stem;
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi’ spreckled breast,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowʻrs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring 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, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent lore,
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 mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date ; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!
The mightiest empires fall!
A sullen welcome, all !
The storm no more I dread;
Round my devoted head.
And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
0! hear a wretch's pray’r !
To close this scene of care !
Resign life's joyless day ;
To stain my lifeless face;
Within thy cold embrace !
TO MISS ,
WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT,
JANUARY 1, 1787.
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail ;
In Edwin's simple tale.
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
An Edwin still to you!
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
A something to have sent you,
Then just a kind memento;
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev’n when your end's attained ; And a’your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
The real, harden'd wicked,
Are to a few restricked :
An' little to be trusted ;
Its rarely right adjusted!
Their fate we should na censure,
They equally may answer;
Tho'poortith hourly stare him;
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Ay free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
Ye scarcely tell to ony.