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At Brooses thou had, ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumplit, 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 hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan",
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn !
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

On guid Marcb weather,
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit,
But thy auid tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

Wi' pith and pow'r
Till spritty krowes wad rair't and risket,

An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour 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 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 snoovt awao

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 wroughty An' wi' the weary warl fought! An' monie an anxious day I thought

We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age were 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 anithér ;
Wi' tentie care I'l} fit thy tether,

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax you leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.


On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, Noa

vember, 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,

Wik murd'ring pattle !

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An fellow-mortal!

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 win's 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' crapreugh cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men,

Gang aft a-gly,
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,

For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear ! An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear.


Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiles: storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you
From seasons such as these ?


When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafles bow'r ;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r

Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro' the flaky show'r,

Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,

Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the.ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wủa bide this brattle

O' winter war,
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle,

Beneath a scar.

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