Tho', by his banes wha in a tub And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi' welcome canna bear me, A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, An' barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O' mony flow'ry simmers! An' bless your bonie lasses baith, I'm tauld they're lo'esome kimmers! An' God bless young Dunaskin's laird, An' may he wear an auld man's beard, TO A LOUSE On seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church. HA! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Owre gauze and lace; Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Gae somewhere else and seek your 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 Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, The verra tapmost, tow'rin height My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't, I wad na been surpris'd to spy O Jeany, dinna toss your head, O wad some Power the giftie gie us It wad frae mony a blunder free us, What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, INSCRIBED ON A WORK OF HANNAH MORE'S Presented to the Author by a Lady. THOU flatt'ring mark of friendship kind, The dear, the beauteous donor; Yet such a head, and more the heart 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 AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues: Chorus. And maun I still on Menie doat, In vain to me the cowslips blaw, And maun I still, &c. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, A dream of ane that never wauks. And maun I still, &c. The wanton coot the water skims, And maun I still, &c. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Come winter, with thine angry howl, 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; Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast! When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, 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! |