Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
That fate is thine no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. GRAY

My loved, my honoured, much respected friend!

No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise.

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequestered