THE COMPLETE WORKS

I have the honour to be,

With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect,

My Lords and Gentlemen,

Your most devoted humble servant,

ROBERT BURNS.

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787.

Mossgiel, 13th Nov. 1786.

The wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw;

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”[1]

The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want (O, do thou grant

This one request of mine!)

Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign!

As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,

Were ae day nibbling on the tether,

Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,

An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch:

There, groaning, dying, she did lie,

When Hughoc[2] he cam doytin by.

Wi’ glowing e’en an’ lifted han’s,

Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s;

He saw her days were near-hand ended,

But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!

He gaped wide but naething spak—

At length poor Mailie silence brak.

“O thou, whose lamentable face

Appears to mourn my woefu’ case!

My dying words attentive hear,

An’ bear them to my master dear.

“Tell him, if e’er again he keep

As muckle gear as buy a sheep,

O bid him never tie them mair

Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair!

But ca’ them out to park or hill,

An’ let them wander at their will;

So may his flock increase, and grow

To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs of woo’!

“Tell him he was a master kin’

An’ ay was gude to me an’ mine;

An’ now my dying charge I gie him,

My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.

“O, bid him save their harmless lives

Frae dogs, and tods, an’ butchers’ knives!

But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,

Till they be fit to fend themsel;

An’ tent them duly, e’en an’ morn,

Wi’ teats o’ hay, an’ ripps o’ corn.

“An’ may they never learn the gaets

Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ pets!

To sink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal

At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail.

So may they, like their great forbears,

For monie a year come thro’ the sheers;

So wives will gie them bits o’ bread,

An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.

“My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir,

O, bid him breed him up wi’ care;

An’ if he live to be a beast,

To pit some havins in his breast!

An’ warn him what I winna name,

To stay content wi’ yowes at hame

An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots,

Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

“An’ niest my yowie, silly thing,

Gude keep thee frae a tether string!

O, may thou ne’er forgather up

Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop,

But ay keep mind to moop an’ mell

Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel!

“And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath

I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith:

An’ when you think upo’ your mither,

Mind to be kind to ane anither.

“Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail

To tell my master a’ my tale;

An’ bid him burn this cursed tether,

An’, for thy pains, thou’se get my blather.”

This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head,

And clos’d her een amang the dead.

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,

Wi’ saut tears trickling down your nose;

Our bardie’s fate is at a close,

Past a’ remead;

The last sad cape-stane of his woes;

Poor Mailie’s dead.

It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear,

That could sae bitter draw the tear,

Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed;

He’s lost a friend and neebor dear,

In Mailie dead.

Thro’ a’ the toun she trotted by him;

A long half-mile she could descry him;

Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him,

She run wi’ speed:

A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him,

Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o’ sense,

An’ could behave hersel wi’ mense:

I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence,

Thro’ thievish greed.

Our bardie, tamely, keeps the spence

Sin’ Mailie’s dead.

Or, if he wonders up the howe,

Her living image in her yowe

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,

For bits o’ bread;

An’ down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o’ moorland tips[3],

Wi’ tawted ket, an hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in ships

Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonnier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips

Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape

That vile, wanchancie thing—a rape!

It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape,

Wi’ chokin dread;

An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape,

For Mailie dead.

O, a’ ye bards on bonnie Doon!

An’ wha on Ayr your chanters tune!

Come, join the melancholious croon

O’ Robin’s reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie’s dead!

I.

While 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.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks’ gift,

That live sae bien an’ snug:

I tent less and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker and canker

To see their cursed pride.

II.

It’s hardly in a body’s power

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar’d;

How best o’ chiels are whiles in want.

While 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:

“Muir spier na, nor fear na,”[4]

Auld age ne’er mind a feg,

The last o’t, the warst o’t,

Is only but to beg.

III.

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

O’ truest happiness.

The honest heart 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 we can fa’.

IV.

What tho’, like commoners of air,

We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hall?

Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woods,

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,

And blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy our hearts will bound

To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,

We’ll sit and sowth a tune;

Syne rhyme till’t we’ll time till’t,

And sing’t when we hae done.

V.

It’s no in titles nor in rank;

It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,

To purchase peace and rest;

It’s no in makin muckle mair;

It’s no in books, it’s no in lear,

To make us truly blest;

If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,

But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,

Could make us happy lang;

The heart ay’s the part ay

That makes us right or wrang.

VI.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ dry,

Wi’ never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,

Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

As hardly worth their while?

Alas! how aft, in haughty mood

God’s creatures they oppress!

Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,

They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless

Of either heaven or hell!

Esteeming and deeming

It’s a’ an idle tale!

VII.

Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce;

Nor make one scanty pleasures less,

By pining at our state;

And, even should misfortunes come,

I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some,

An’s thankfu’ for them yet.

They gie the wit of age to youth;

They let us ken oursel’;

They make us see the naked truth,

The real guid and ill.

Tho’ losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe,

There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,

Ye’ll find nae other where.

VIII.

But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

And flatt’ry I detest,)

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne’er could buy:

And joys the very best.

There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart,

The lover an’ the frien’;

Ye hae your Meg your dearest part,

And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,

To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a’ on flame!

IX.

O, all ye pow’rs who rule above!

O, Thou, whose very self art love!

Thou know’st my words sincere!

The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart,

Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief

And solace to my breast.

Thou Being, All-seeing,

O hear my fervent pray’r!

Still take her, and make her

Thy most peculiar care!

X.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!

The smile of love, the friendly tear,

The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world’s thorny ways

Had number’d out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,

In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing hand,

A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean!

XI.

O, how that name inspires my style

The words come skelpin, rank and file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,

As Phœbus and the famous Nine

Were glowrin owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

’Till ance he’s fairly het;

And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,

An’ rin an unco fit:

But least then, the beast then

Should rue this hasty ride,

I’ll light now, and dight now

His sweaty, wizen’d hide.

I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,

For your auld-farrent, frien’ly letter;

Tho’ I maun say’t, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair.

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;

Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,

To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle

O’ war’ly cares,

Till bairn’s bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld, gray hairs.

But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;

I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be licket

Until yo fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faiket,

Be hain’t who like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,

Rivin’ the words to gar them clink;

Whyles daez’t wi’ love, whyles daez’t wi’ drink,

Wi’ jads or masons;

An’ whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,

Commen’ me to the Bardie clan;

Except it be some idle plan

O’ rhymin’ clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’,

Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’;

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An’ while ought’s there,

Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’,

An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,

My chief, amaist my only pleasure,

At hame, a-fiel’, at work, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,

She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie:

The warl’ may play you monie a shavie;

But for the Muse she’ll never leave ye,

Tho’ e’er so puir,

Na, even tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavie

Frae door to door.

O thou! whatever title suit thee,

Auld Hornie, Satan, Kick, or Clootie,

Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,

An’ let poor damned bodies be;

I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,

E’en to a deil,

To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,

An’ hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;

Far kend an’ noted is thy name;

An’ tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame,

Thou travels far;

An’, faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,

For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;

Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin,

Tirlin the kirks;

Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my reverend Graunie say,

In lanely glens ye like to stray;

Or where auld-ruin’d castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way

Wi’ eldricht croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon,

To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!

Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin,

Wi’ eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortries comin,

Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,

Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

Wi’ waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake.

Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,

When wi’ an eldritch, stoor quaick—quaick—

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter’d, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags,

Tell how wi’ you, on rag weed nags,

They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags

Wi’ wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues

Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,

May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain:

For, oh! the yellow treasure’s taen

By witching skill;

An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gaen

As yell’s the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse

On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse;

When the best wark-lume i’ the house

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit,

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,

An’ float the jinglin icy-boord,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction;

An’ nighted trav’llers are allur’d

To their destruction.

An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies

Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is,

The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys

Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne’er mair to rise.

When masons’ mystic word an’ grip

In storms an’ tempests raise you up,

Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,

Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonie yard,

When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,

An’ all the soul of love they shar’d,

The raptur’d hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry sward,

In shady bow’r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

Ye came to Paradise incog.

An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa’!)

An’ gied the infant world a shog,

‘Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,

Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

‘Mang better folk,

An’ sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,

An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hall,

While scabs an’ botches did him gall,

Wi’ bitter claw,

An’ lows’d his ill tongu’d, wicked scawl,

Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,

Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,

A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin

To your black pit;

But, faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin,

An’ cheat you yet.

But fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!

Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—

Still hae a stake—

I’m wae to think upo’ yon den

Ev’n for your sake!

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!

Hae, there’s a rip to thy auld baggie:

Tho’ thou’s howe-backit, now, an’ knaggie,

I’ve seen the day

Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie

Out-owre the lay.

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,

An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisy,

I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek, and glaizie,

A bonny gray:

He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,

Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,

A filly, buirdly, steeve, an’ swank,

An set weel down a shapely shank,

As e’er tread yird;

An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,

Like ony bird.

It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,

Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s Meere;

He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,

An’ fifty mark;

Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,

An’ thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,

Ye then was trottin wi’ your minnie:

Tho’ ye was trickle, slee, an’ funny,

Ye ne’er was donsie:

But hamely, tawie, quiet an’ cannie,

An’ unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,

When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:

An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,

Wi’ maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,

For sic a pair.

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,

An’ wintle like a saumont-coble,

That day, ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an’ win’!

An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,

Far, far, behin’!

When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,

An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh,

An’ tak the road!

Town’s bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,

An’ ca’t thee mad.

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,

We took the road ay like a swallow:

At Brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,

For pith an’ speed;

But every tail thou pay’t them hollow,

Where’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle,

Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;

But sax Scotch miles thou try’t their mettle,

An’ gar’t them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle

O’ saugh or hazle.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,

As e’er in tug or tow was drawn:

Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours gaun,

In guid March-weather,

Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’

For days thegither.

Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,

Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,

’Till spiritty knowes wad rair’t and risket,

An’ slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,

An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;

Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, an’ breastit,

Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,

Thou snoov’t awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairntime a’;

Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;

Forbye sax mae, I’ve sell’t awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,

The vera worst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

An, wi’ the weary warl’ fought!

An’ monie an anxious day, I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,

Wi’ something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan’,

That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,

An’ thy auld days may end in starvin,

For my last fow,

A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane

Laid by for you.

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;

We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;

Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether,

To some hain’d rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!

Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace

As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o’ need,

While thro’ your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic-labour dight,

An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

’Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.

Is there that o’er his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi’ perfect sconner,

Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither’d rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He’ll mak it whissle;

An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o’ fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,

Gie her a Haggis!

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art

Surpasses me to know;

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,

All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul

Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act

From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears,

Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then, man my soul with firm resolves

To bear and not repine!

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause

Of all my hope and fear?

In whose dread presence, ere an hour

Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander’d in those paths

Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,

Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me,

With passions wild and strong;

And list’ning to their witching voice

Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,

Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art,

In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err’d,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

How I so found it full of pleasing charms?

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:

Some gleams of sunshine ‘mid renewing storms:

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or Death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode?

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;

I tremble to approach an angry God,

And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, “Forgive my foul offence!”

Fain promise never more to disobey;

But, should my Author health again dispense,

Again I might desert fair virtue’s way:

Again in folly’s path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute and sink the man;

Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,

Who act so counter heavenly mercy’s plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,

Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,

Or still the tumult of the raging sea:

With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me

Those headlong furious passions to confine;

For all unfit I feel my pow’rs to be,

To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line;

O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,

Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;

When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r

Far south the lift,

Dim-darkening through 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 through the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl.

Listening, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,

I thought me on the ourie cattle,

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O’ winter war,

And through 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?

Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing,

An’ close thy e’e?

Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,

Lone from your savage homes exiled,

The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled

My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,

Dark muffled, viewed 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 heaven-illumined 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!

Even in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,

How pamper’d luxury, flattery 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,

Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

Where, where is love’s fond, tender throe,

With lordly honour’s lofty brow,

The powers 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 prayers!

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!

Oh 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,

Stretched 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 hailed the morning with a cheer—

A cottage-rousing craw!

But deep this truth impressed my mind—

Through all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles God.

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,

Beyond comparison the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.

In every other circumstance, the mind

Has this to say, ‘It was no deed of mine;’

But when to all the evil of misfortune

This sting is added—‘Blame thy foolish self!’

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,—

Of guilt, perhaps, where we’ve involved others;

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us,

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!

O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,

There’s not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonizing throbs;

And, after proper purpose of amendment,

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?

O, happy! happy! enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!