2. Far shower'd around, the hill, the plain While warm with hope and rapturous joy Love swells its notes, and liberty, 3. Thy little bosom knows no ill, No gloomy thought, no wayward will; Like thy own plumes along the sky, 4. "Twas thus my earliest hopes aspired, To snatch from fate the dazzling prize, -Alas! th' unbidden sigh will rise. 5. How glorious rose life's morning star; 6. Too soon the fond illusion pass'd ;- And, narrowing with each coming year, 7. Still o'er my soul, though changed and dead, 8. Sing on! sing on! What heart so cold, But needs must sympathize! As from some cherub of the sky -Oh! could I mount with thee on high And share thy ecstasies! Anna Barbauld (1743 — 1825). TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. 1. Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 2. Alas! it's no thy neebor2 sweet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, 3. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 6 1 dust. 2neighbour. 3 moisture. 4 spotted. 5 salute. 6 peeped. Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. 4. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's' maun shield; 5. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, 6. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 7. Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 8. 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! Robert Burns (1759 — 1796). See Blackie's School Classics. The Cotter's Saturday Night, &c. (78) с TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Note. This celebrated poem was composed in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day in which Burns heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell. 1. Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, My Mary from my soul was torn. Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 2. That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Those records dear of transports past- Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! 3. Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; 4. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? Robert Burns (1759 — 1796). HONEST POVERTY. 1. Is there for honest poverty That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by; We dare be poor for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp The man's the gowd1 for a' that. 2. What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden2 gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. 3. You see yon birkie3 ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' thatTho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that; He looks and laughs at a' that. 4. A king can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might-- For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities and a' that; The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth 5. Then let us pray that come it may, 1 gold. 2 coarse 3 young fellow. 4 fool. 5 must not try. |