Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH.

WEE,

EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickerin brattle 1!

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

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!
A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,

1 hurry.

And never miss 't!

2 hand-stick for clearing the plough.

An ear of corn now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves.

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big' a new one.
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' 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
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald*,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

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 and pain
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared 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 an' fear!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool2? Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this arena throng?
O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career
Wild as the wave?

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stained his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;

Know prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

1 bashful.

2 submit tamely.

"Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green, The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene."

BURNS. Page 167