Glories in his heart humane, And creatures for his pleasure slain! In these savage, liquid plains, And life's poor season peaceful spend Or, if man's superior might Man with all his powers you scorn; Other lakes and other springs; And the foe you cannot brave, SONNET WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH. DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH, IN A SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough; Sits meek Content, with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. ON SENSIBILITY. TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONORED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. SENSIBILITY! how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; Fairest flower, behold the lily, Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow; Thrill the deepest notes of wo TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I truly sorrow man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles but thou may thieve! 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December win's 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 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou'st turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet. Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, But thou, beneath the random bield |