Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When Masons' mystic word an' grip, The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog. An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, 'Maist ruin'd a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 'Mang better fo'k, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him' i' your thrall, An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked Scawl, But a' your doings to rehearse, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin, To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! Still hae a stake I'm wae to think upo' yon den, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 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, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TAM O' SHANTER. A TALE. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; |