An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and 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,
Hast cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hauld,

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 au' fear.

A WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'r you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless head, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?-

SHAKESPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,

Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r

Far south the lift,
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,

Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,

Wild-eddying swirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And thro' the drift deep lairing sprattle,

Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee!

An' close thy e'e?

Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd,

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,

Than 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 the 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 glitt'ring 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 mis'ry'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 broker 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.

EPISTLE TO DAVIE,*

A BROTHER POET.

January

W

HILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,

And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,

And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely westlin jingle.

David Sillar, author of a volume of poems in the Scotish dialect.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

1 grudge a wee the great folk's gift
That live sae bien an' snug:
1 tent less, and want less,
Their roomy fire-side;
But banker and canker.

To see their curs'd pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r
To keep at times frae being sour,
To see how things are shar'd:
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
Whiles coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't;

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
Mair spier na, nor fear na',*

Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest man that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',
Has ay some cause to smile.
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma' ;
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

What, though, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal'?

• Ramsay.