The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,

My heart forgets,

While pityless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole-

'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting,

Thau heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows! See stern oppression's iron grip,

Or mad ambition's gory hand,

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glittering show,
A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?

Is there, beneath love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!

Mark maiden-innocence, a prey
To love-pretending snares,
This boasted honour turns away,
Shunning soft pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs !
Perhaps, this hour, in misery's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking
blast!

O ye! who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill-satisfied keen nature's clamorous call,

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!'

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer

Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress'd my mind-
Through all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles God.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

THOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

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 will 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 shores O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care; Time but the' impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

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,

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 makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

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!
Its silly wa's the wins are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

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,'
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men,
Gang aft a-gly,

An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promis'd joy.

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.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

On turning one down with the Plough in April, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! its no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' speckled breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.