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 wattle

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' fech't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith and pow'r,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor 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

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time 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 warst.

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 fou,

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 r g,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.

VOL. III.

L

ΤΟ

ΤΟ

A MOUSE,

On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' 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 maks thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt

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 blessin wi' the lave,

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the wins are strewin ! An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

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 turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!