Those mighty periods of years
Which seem to us so vast,

Appear no more before Thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;

Again Thou say'st, Ye sons of men,
ye into nought!'

6 Return

Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long ere night cut down it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGII,
IN APRIL, 1786.†

ZEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

W

For I maun crush amang the stourc
Thy slender stem.

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.

* See the note on Verses to a Mouse, p. 128 ante.

20

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie 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-carth

Thy tender form.

10

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, 20
But thou, beneath the random bield

O'clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy 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 flow'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!

40

50

TO RUIN.*

LL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!

Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,

*It appears, from internal evidence, that these lines were written in 1786. The "dart" that

is evidently an allusion to his separation from Jean Armour. Allan Cunningham, however, attributes these verses to the failure of his farming speculations.

The ministers of grief and pain,

A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;

For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring, and pouring,

The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning
Round my devoted head.

And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;

My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay;

No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face,
Enclasped, and grasped
Within thy cold embrace!

TO MISS LOGAN,* WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787.

GAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv❜n,
you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.

And

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps too true;
But may, dear Maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. †
MAY, 1786.

LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;

10

*Miss Susan Logan, who was "the sentimental sister Susie" of the Epistle to Major Logan. She sang with taste and feeling, and, with her brother, cheered the Bard in many of his desponding hours."-Allan Cunningham. These verses were first printed in the second edition.

The friend to whom this Epistle was addressed, was Andrew Aiken of Ayr, son of Robert Aiken, to whom Burns inscribed The Cotter's Saturday Night.'