165 170 175 From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And O! may Heaven their simple lives pre vent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, 180 And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. 185 O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, 5 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 10 I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Which makes thee startle I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 15 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! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! 25 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, 30 An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 35 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 40 But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, 5 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 10 Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 20 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Unseen, alane. 25 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 30 But now the share upturns thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, 35 Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid, Low i' the dust. 40 Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, 45 By human pride or cunning driv'n, Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, TAM O'SHANTER (First published 1791) "Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke."-Gawin Douglas When chapman billies leave the street, This truth fand honest TAM O' SHANTER, O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, |