165

170

175

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind;

What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And O! may Heaven their simple lives pre

vent

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while,

180 And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.

185

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace'
heart,

Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and
guard!

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!

5 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

10

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! 15 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!
20 It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething now to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

25 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast,

30

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 turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

35 To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

40

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

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
45 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-tippèd flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stour
Thy slender stem:

5 To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.

10

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.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
15 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, 20 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histy stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

25 There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

30

But now the share upturns 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,

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

40

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 given,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

45 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,
50 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!

TAM O'SHANTER

(First published 1791)

"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke."-Gawin Douglas

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
5 While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
10 Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest TAM O' SHANTER,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
15 (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!