THE

FIRST SIX VERSES

OF THE

NINETIETH PSALM.

O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Of all the human race!

Whose strong right-hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling-place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads

Beneath thy forming hand,

Before this pond'rous globe itself,

Arose at thy command;

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds

This universal frame,

From countless unbeginning time

Was ever still the same.

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,

• Return ye into nought!'

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.

VOL. I.

ΤΟ

A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON

TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH,

IN APRIL 1786.

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

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem.

To

spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! its no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie 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-earth

Thy tender form.

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, Thy snawie 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 plough-share drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!