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Glories in his heart humane,
In these savage, liquid plains,
Or, if man's superior might
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;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONORED FRIEND, MRS. DUN
LOP, OF DUNLOP.
SENSIBILITY! how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
Thou hast also known too well.
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray ;
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure,
Finer feelings can bestow;
Thrill the deepest notes of wo.
TO A MOUSE,
Wi' bickerin brattle!
Wi murdoring pattle!
I truly sorrow man's dominion
Which makes thee startle
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 !
O’ foggage green;
Baith snell and keen !
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
But house or hald,
An' cranreuch cauld !
But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
Gang aft a-gley,
For promis'd joy.
Still thou art blest, compard wi' me!
On prospects drear!
I guess an’ fear!
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem;
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' speckled breast,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting North
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
O' clod or stane,