THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid father's meere He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie: Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, Ye ne'er was donsie, But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, An' unco sonsie. That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, An' wintle like a samount-coble, That day ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far behin'. When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad. When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Thou was a noble fittie-lan', On guid March weather, Thou never braindg't an' fetch't, an' fliskit, Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied my cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer: I ken'd my Maggie wadna 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, Thoa snoovt 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; WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! 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; 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, 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, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft agley, 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 A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are, WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim-dark'ning through the flaky show'r Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns wi' snawy wreaths up chocked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or through the mining outlet bocked, List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle Beneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That in the merry month o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exil'd, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows; Not all your rage, as now, united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, EPISTLE TO DAVIE, Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man bestows! See stern Oppression's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, A creature of another kind, Some courser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, The powers ye proudly own? Is there, beneath Love's noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone! Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasting Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs! Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast! Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown; Ill satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!' I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer And hail'd the morning with a cheer, But deep this truth impressed my mind- The heart benevolent and kind, WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, To see their cursed pride. II. Its hardly in a body's pow'r To see how things are shar'd; But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, Mair speir na, nor fear na't III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then, content could make us blest; The honest heart that's free frae a' With honest joy our hearts will bound, On braes when we please, then, V. It's no in titles nor in rank; Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Think ye that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry, Think ye, are we less blest than they, Baith careless and fearless VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; And, even should misfortunes come, An's thankfu' for them yet. They make us see the naked truth, Tho' losses and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where. VIII. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, Ye have your Meg, your dearest part, |