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Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
When Masons' mystic word an' grip,
Or, strange to tell ! The youngest Brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell!
Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair’d, An' all the soul of love they shar'd
The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r:
Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog!
(Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shog,
'Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
'Mang better fo'k, Ano sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him' i' your thrall,
Wi' bitter claw,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse,
Down to this time,
prose or rhyme.
An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,
To your black pit;
An' cheat you yet.
But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
Still hae a stake
Ev'n for your sake! •
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
O'clod or stane,
*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,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
To mis'ry's brink,
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!
TAM O' SHANTER.
When chapman billies leave the street, . And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;