An' warn him, what I winna name; But ay keep mind to moop an' mell*, 'And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather" This said, poor Mailie turned her head, FROM AN EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD I am nae Poet, in a sense, But just a Rhymer like, by chance, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic-folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 1 What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, A set o' dull, conceited hashes3, Confuse their brains in college classes! An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, Then tho' I drudge thro' dub® an' mire My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk' o' Allan's glee, That would be lear eneugh for me, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickerin brattle '! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry 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 blessing wi' the lave, And never miss 't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 2 An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' 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 mony a weary nibble! To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! An ear of corn now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves. But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane', An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The short but simple annals of the Poor.-Gray. My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh3; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; 1 thyself alone. 2 awry. 3 whistling sound. 1 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher1 thro', His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, stagger. 2 fluttering. 3 by and by. 4 Although the 'Cotter,' in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father in his manners, his family devotions, and exhortations, yet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family. None of us ever were 'At service out amang the neebors roun'. Instead of our depositing our 'sair-won penny-fee' with our parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might be able to keep his children at home.-Gilbert Burns to Dr. Currie, Oct. 24, 1800. 5 attentively. 6 enquires. 7 news. |