For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured Dead Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne 'Approach and read (for thou canʼst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' THE EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('twas all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. BURNS (OUTLINE HISTORY, § 85) MARY MORISON O MARY, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blythely wad I bide the stoure,1 slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, A weary The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen, when to the trembling string To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, At least be pity to me shown; Pressure of circumstance. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WEE, sleeket,1 cowrin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickerin brattle !? I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 4 I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave," An' never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 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. 3 Plough-staff. 4 At times. • The rest. 2 Scamper. An odd ear of grain in twenty-four ears of corn. 1 Sleek. 7 Coarse grass. 8 Bitter. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, To thole3 the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch1 cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,5 An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! On prospects drear, An' forward, tho' I canna see, 1 Without. • Hoar-frost. I guess an' fear! JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO JOHN Anderson, my jo, John, John Anderson, my jo, John, TO MARY IN HEAVEN THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast! That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity can not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace, Ah! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my mem❜ry wakes, My Mary! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? |