An' may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country.

TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S
BONNET, AT CHURCH

HA! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gauze and lace;

Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her-
Sae fine a lady?

Gae somewhere else and seek your

On some poor body.

dinner

Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;

Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,

Till ye've got on it

The verra tapmost, tow'rin height

O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an' grey as ony groset:

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,

Wad dress your droddum.

I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi! fye!

How daur ye do't?

O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin:
Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
An' ev'n devotion!

INSCRIBED ON A WORK OF HANNAH MORE'S Presented to the Author by a Lady.

THOU flatt'ring mark of friendship kind,

Still may thy pages call to mind

The dear, the beauteous donor;

Tho' sweetly female ev'ry part,

Yet such a head, and more the heart
Does both the sexes honour:

She show'd her taste refin'd and just,
When she selected thee;

Yet deviating, own I must,

For sae approving me:

But kind still I'll mind still

The giver in the gift;

I'll bless her, an' wiss her

A Friend aboon the lift.

SONG, COMPOSED IN SPRING

Tune-"Jockey's Grey Breeks."

AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

Chorus. And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' i winna let a body be.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
And maun I still, &c.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.
And maun I still, &c.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev'ry thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, &c.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And o'er the moorlands whistles shill:
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.

Come winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging, bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still, &c.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

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

WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd 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 bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckl'd breast!

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv❜n, By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink;

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

TO RUIN

ALL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word,

The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all!