The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.
And maun I still, etc.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And everything is blest but I.
And maun I still, etc.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill,

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, etc.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, etc.

Come Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be!

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN

APRIL, 1786

By Robert Burns

EE, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil

For I maun crush amang the

Thy slender stem.

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neeber sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckl'd breast!

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet,
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

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 Aow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, 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!

BONNIE DOON

By Robert Burns

E banks and braes o' bonnie Doon How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?

How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' of care? Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons through the flow'ry thorn, Thou mindst me o' departed joys,

Departed never to return.

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine;
When ilka bird sang o' its love,
And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
But my fause lover stole my rose,

And, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

SPRING SONG IN THE CITY

By Robert Buchanan

HO remains in London,
In the streets with me,
Now that Spring is blowing
Warm winds from the sea;
Now that trees grow green and
tall,

Now the sun shines mellow,

And with moist primroses all

English lanes are yellow?

Little barefoot maiden,

Selling violets blue, Hast thou ever pictur'd

Where the sweetlings grew?

Oh, the warm wild woodland ways,

Deep in dewy grasses,

Where the wind-blown shadow strays,

Scented as it passes!

Pedlar breathing deeply,
Toiling into town,
With the dusty highway

You are dusky brown;
Hast thou seen by daisied leas,

And by rivers flowing,
Lilac-ringlets which the breeze

Loosens lightly blowing?

Out of yonder wagon
Pleasant hay-scents float,