TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGHI, NOVEMBER, 1785.

[Here we again see how, in the words of Thomas Carlyle, the poet "rises to the high, stoops to the low, and is brother and playmate to all nature." This is, by readers gentle and readers simple, acknowledged to be one of the most perfect little gems that ever human genius produced. One of its couplets has passed into a proverb:-"The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, gang aft agley."]

WEE, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

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 makes thee startle,

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal !

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,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's 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 an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast, 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, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald,

To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

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 an' 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,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.

January

[The references to "my darling Jean," in this most delightful poem, shew that January, 1785, is its proper date. Some editors have set down the year 1784, and the writer of the memoir of Sillar, in the "Contemporaries of Burns," unreasonably contends for 1782 being the real date; but "Rab Mossgiel" had no acquaintanceship with "Mauchline Belles" before the spring and summer of 1784. David Sillar was one year younger than Burns, and like him, was the son of a small farmer in the neighbourhood of Tarbolton, and although he had taught in the parish school for a month or two, during a vacancy previous to the appointment of John Wilson (Hornbook o' the clachan), he had no claim to the character of "scholar," bestowed on him by Allan Cunningham. His "Poems," published in 1789, prove him to have been no poet. He resided in Irvine from the close of the year 1783, first as a grocer, and thereafter as a schoolmaster: for several years, latterly, he was a councillor, and eventually a bailie of that town, where he died much respected in 1830. The intensity of Burns' love for his Jean is strongly indicated in the present poem, and some of the expressions used in reference to that affection-" Her dear idea brings relief," and those lines

"The life blood streaming thro' my heart,

Or my more dear Immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!

have their counterparts in the little fragment in his Scrap-Book, under date May, 1785, which evidently is the first sketch of the world-famous song, "Of a' the airts," &c., composed in honour of her,

k

"Her dear idea round my heart should tenderly entwine:

Tho' mountains rise and deserts howl, and oceans roar between;
Yet dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean."]

WHILE winds frae off BEN-LOMOND blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down, to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the Great-folk's gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r,
To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd;
How best o' chiels are whyles in want,
While Coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't:

D

But DAVIE lad, ne'er fash your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
'Mair spier na, nor fear na,'
Auld age ne'er mind a feg;
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only but to beg.

*

To lye in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba',
Has ay some cause to smile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther we can fa.'

What tho', like Commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal'?

Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when Daisies deck the ground,
And Blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy, our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please then,

We'll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till❜t, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

* Ramsay.-(R. B. 1786.)

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on Bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in makin muckle, mair:
It's no in books; it's no in Lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And center in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay,

That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we lest blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft, in haughty mood,
GOD'S creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess !

Baith careless, and fearless,
Of either Heaven or Hell;
Esteeming, and deeming,
It a' an idle tale!

Then let us chearfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty Pleasures less,
By pining at our state:

And, ev'n should Misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of Age to Youth;
They let us ken oursel;

They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.