Part 14 (1/2)

Thou needna start awa' sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle!

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, And justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal!

I doubtna, whiles, 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 blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss 't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!

And naething now to big a new ane O' foggage green, And bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, cras.h.!.+ the cruel coulter pa.s.sed Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us naught 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!

And forward, though I canna see, I guess and fear.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east!

Cauld blew the bitter biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun s.h.i.+eld, But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy una.s.suming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust.

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 striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!