TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble, birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs 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, Unseen, alane. 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, 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 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! TO RUIN. I. ALL bail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, For one has cut my dearest tie, Then low'ring, and pouring, II. And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, No more I shrink appall'd, afraid; To close this scene of care! My weary heart its throbbings cease, TO MISS L 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, And you, though scarce in maiden prime, No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts, Our sex with guile and faithless love But may, dear maid, each lover prove EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY 1786. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, But how the subject-theme may gang, Perhaps turn out a sermon. II. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And muckle they may grieve ye: III. I'll no say, men are villains a'; But och, mankind are unco weak, IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. Ay free, aff han' your story tell, |