From housewife cares a minute borrow -
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
“The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on
- for what do we hear?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may - - a few years must
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future life, in worlds unknown,
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woful night. -
Since then, my honor'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends;
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those that never die.
Tho' you, with days and honors crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to convulse,)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE,
ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED
A GUID New Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,
I'se seen the day
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie
Out owre the lay.
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an glaizie,
A bonie gray;
He should been tight that daur't to raise thee
Ance in a day.
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
An' set weel down a shapely shank,
As e'er tread yird,
An' could hae flown out owre a stank,
Like onie bird.
It's now some nine-an'-twenty year
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
An' fifty mark;
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
An' thou was stark.
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie;
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' canie,
An' unco sonsie.
That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride;
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride
Wi' maiden air!
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide
For sic a pair.
Though now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, An' wintle like a samount-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an' win'!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'.
When thou an' I were young an' skeigh,
An' stable meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,
An' tak the road!
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road ay like a swallow;
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow
Where'er thou gaed.
The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter-cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles, thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle!
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,
On guid March weather,
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.
Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith and pow'r,
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer;
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never restit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac'd it;
Thou never lap, and sten't and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,
That thou hast nurst;
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' monie an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat;
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.
An' think na, my auld trusty servan',
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin',
An' thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.
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