In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't 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, 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. And 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; To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue. VOL. III. L ΤΟ ΤΟ A MOUSE, On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which maks thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt 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! An' bleak December's winds 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, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd 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. A WINTER |