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Glories in his heart humane,
And creatures for his pleasure slain !

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways,
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend

Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his powers you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs ;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

SONNET

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH.

DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH, IN MORNING WALK.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See! aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol, clears his furrow'd brow;
So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content, with light, unanxious heart,

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this op'ning day,
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies !
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll

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share.

ON SENSIBILITY.

r

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONORED FRIEND, MRS. DUN

LOP, OF DUNLOP.

SENSIBILITY! how charming,

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,

Thou hast also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily,

Blooming in the sunny ray ;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,

See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,

Telling o'er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies.

!

Dearly bought the hidden treasure,

Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

Thrill the deepest notes of wo.

TO A MOUSE,
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH,

NOVEMBER, 1785.
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie !
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need nae start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi murdoring pattle!

I truly sorrow 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,

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An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles but thou may thieve! What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! A. daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma’ request : I'll 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,

O’ foggage green;
An' bleak December win's 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 monie a weary nibble!
Now thou'st turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld !

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best laid scheme o' mice an' men,

Gang aft a-gley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain

For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compard 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!

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WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stouré

Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie Lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' speckled breast,
When upward-springing, blithe, 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 sheltriny woods and wa’s maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

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