That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble, That day ye was a jinker noble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, When thou an' I were young an' 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, For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Whare'er thou gaed. The The sma', droop-rumpl't, 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 hazle. Thou was a noble fittie-lan', In guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither. Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, Wi' pith and pow'r, 'Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor 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; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 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; To some hain'd r g, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue. VOL. III. L ΤΟ ΤΟ A MOUSE, On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which maks thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt |