There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head,

In humble guise;
But now the share uptears 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,
Till she, like thee, all soild, 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 giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
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,
That fate is thine--no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

TO RUIN.

ALL hail! inexorable lord !
At whose destruction-breathing word

The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,

A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my

heart.
Then low'ring, and pouring,

The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning and black’ning

Round my devoted head.

And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,

Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
No more I shrink appall’d, afraid ;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care !
When shall my soul, in silent peace,

Resign life's joyless day;
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,

To stain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and grasped

Within thy cold embrace !

TO MISS LOGAN,

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT,

JANUARY 1, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,

Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts

The infant year to hail ;
I send you more than India boasts,

In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove

An Edwin still to you!

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

MAY

-1786.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end

Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,

Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon, my ląd,

And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,

Ev’n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought

Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

I'll no say, men are villains a';

The real harden’d wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked:
But och! mankind are unco weak,

And little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,

It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,

Their fate we shouldna censure,
For still th’ important end of life

They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,

Tho'poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff han’ your story tell,

When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel

Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,

Wi’ sharpen'd, slee inspection.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,

Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’illicit rove,

Tho' naetbing should divulge it;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,

The hazard o' concealing; But och! it hardens a' within,

And petrifies the feeling !

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honour; Not for to bide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege

Of being independent.