What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Ye'd better taen up spades and shools 2, A set o' dull, conceited hashes*, Confuse their brains in college classes! 6 An' syne they think to climb Parnassus Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, Then tho' I drudge thro' dub7 an' mire My Muse, though hamely in attire, 8 May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, That would be lear9 eneugh for me, TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessing wi' the lave2, And never miss 't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell' an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 7 5 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 1 An ear of corn now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves. 3 build. hoar-frost. 4 bitter. 2 rest ' endure. But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane1, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! But, och! I backward cast my e'e An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The short and simple annals of the Poor.-Gray. My loved, my honoured, much respected friend! With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh'; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; 1 alone. 2 3 awry. whistling sound. The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,― This night his weekly moil is at an end, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, 1 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro', His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 2 fluttering. 1 stagger. by and by. Although the 'Cotter,' in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father in his manners, his family devotions, and exhortations, yet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family. None of us ever were At service out amang the neebors roun'. Instead of our depositing our 'sair-won penny-fee' with our parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might be able to keep his children at home.-Gilbert Burns to Dr. Currie, Oct. 24, 1800. Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 1 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; Their master's an' their mistress's command, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door ; Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben"; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; |