But He who feeds the ravens young,
Lets naething pass He disna see;
He'll sometime judge o' right and wrang,
And aye provide for and me.

you

And hear me, Hector, thee I'll trust,
As far as thou hast wit and skill;
Sae will I ae sweet lovely breast,
To me a balm for every ill.

I ne'er could thole thy cravin' face,
Nor when ye pattit on my knee;
Though in a far and unco place

I've whiles been forced to beg for thee.
Even now I'm in my master's power,
Where my regard may scarce be shown;
But ere I'm forced to gi'e thee o'er,
When thou art auld and senseless grown,
ain-

I'll get a cottage o' my

Some wee bit cannie, lonely biel',* Where thy auld heart shall rest fu' fain,

And share wi' me my humble meal.

Thy post shall be to guard the door
Wi' gousty bark, whate'er betides;
Of cats and hens to clear the floor,

And bite the flaes that vex thy sides.
When my last bannock's on the hearth,
Of that thou sannat want thy share;
While I hae house or hald on earth,
My Hector shall hae shelter there.
And should grim death thy noddle save
Till he has made an end o' me,
Ye'll lie a wee while on the grave
O'ane wha aye was kind to thee.

There's nane alive will miss me mair;
And though in words thou canst not wail,
On a' the claes thy master ware,

I ken thou❜lt smell and wag thy tail.

If e'er I'm forced wi' thee to part,
Which will be sair against my will,
I'll sometimes mind thy honest heart,
As lang as I can climb a hill.
Come, my auld, towzy, trusty friend,
Let's speel to Queensb'ry's lofty height,
All warldly cares we'll leave behind,
And onward look to days more bright.
While gazing o'er the Lowland dales,
Despondence on the breeze shall flee;
And Muses leave their native vales

To scale the clouds wi' you and me.

THE ROBIN.

THOU Comest, blithe one, when the summer sky
Hath deepened into autumn's richer blue,
When gorgeous sunset clouds come floating by,
Burning with golden or with crimson hue;
And eve's first planet sparkling in the west,
Beckons the weary day to early rest.

Thou comest, sweet one, when the beechwoods wear
Their richest tinted robe-before decay
Hath touched a loveliness more rich and rare
Than all the young luxuriance of May;

A deeper glow of beauty on them lies;
Their hues seemed borrowed all of sunset skies.

Thou comest with thy song when gushing rills
Have hushed the silver murmuring which made

Music at summer noontide 'mid the hills,

And filled with melody the woodland shade.

Summer is gone!-can the bright waters leap
Half so rejoicingly adown the steep?

Thou comest, too, when memories fill the heart
Of brightness banished long;

When flowers grow pale, and silently depart,
Their requiem is thy song.

The blackbird's note, the nightingale's soft lay,
And lark's exulting chant, have passed away.

Where hast thou been through the bright summer days,

When on the air a thousand songs went by? Oh! hast thou hushed or treasured up thy lays, Quenching thy bosom's hidden melody,

To

pour it forth with sweeter, richer power, Gladdening the silence of an autumn hour? Yes! thus it is-thou comest, and wilt stay

E'en though the dreary winter tarry long, Mourning, perchance, for summer's glorious day, Yet ever blending in thy simple song

An under tone of hope, some note which tells
That spring will come again with opening buds and
bells.
ANONYMOUS

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING ONE UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic 's in thy breastie !
Thou needna start awa so hastie,
Wi' bickering brattle!*

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle.t

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,

And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

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

I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve: What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker* in a thravet

'S a sma' request :

I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,t
And never miss't.

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the winds are strewin'!
And naething now to big a new ane
O' foggage green!

And bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And
weary winter comin' fast,

And cozies here beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch|| cauld!

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,¶
In proving foresight may be vain :

An ear of corn now and then.

+ A shock of corn.

The rest. Snugly. The hoarfrost.

¶ Not alone

The best laid schemes o' mice and men,
Gang aft a-gley,*

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.

Still art thou blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But oh! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!

And forward, though I canna see,
I guess and fear.

BURNS.

TO A CITY PIGEON.

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touched my love!
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,
And my joy is high

To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,
And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?
Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet?
How canst thou bear

This noise of people-this breezeless air?

Thou alone of the feathered race,
Dost look unscared on the human face:

Thou alone, with a wing to flee,

Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And the "gentle dove"

Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!

Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word;

*Off the right line, wrong.