The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banishèd, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down to heaven's Eternal King, Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 135 140 Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145 In all the pomp of method and of art, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 150 But haply, in some cottage far apart, And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 155 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 160 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 165 And certes in fair virtue's heavenly road, What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 170 Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! 175 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. 180 O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part! In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! 1785 or 1786. 1786. 185 TO A MOUSE ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion 5 An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! O' foggage green! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, ΙΟ 15 20 25 3390 35 Still, thou art blest compared wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! 1786. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 Thou's met me in an evil hour, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, 45 5 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; 20 O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 1786. Thou lifts thy unassuming head But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid, Such is the fate of simple bard, 35 On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Till, wrenched of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 1786. TO A LOUSE ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? I canna say but ye strunt rarely Ower gauze and lace, Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 5 3390 |