114 TO A TOUSE. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, O, The difference to me! 1 travelled among unknown men, 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Among thy mountains did I feel And she I cherished turned her wheel Thy morning showed, thy nights concealed, TO A MOUSE, ON HER NEST BEING turned UP BY A plough. - Burns WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle! TO A MOUSE. I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,2 An' never miss 't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's wind ensuin', Baith snell1 and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwe Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, n ear of corn, now and then. Biting. 5 Without. I An' cranreuch' cauld: 2 Rest. 115 3 Build. 7 Hoar-frost · 116 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,1 An' leave us naught but grief an' pain Still thou art blessed, compared with me! But, Och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear, An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH. Burns. WEE, modest, crimson-tippéd flower, Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet 1 Alone. 2 Wrong. 3 Dust. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. Cauld blew the bitter, biting north Scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie3 stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er. Such fate to suffering worth is given, To mis'ry's brink; Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink. 1 1 Peeped. 2 Shelte 3 Barren. 117 1.18 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. — Mrs. Hemans THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night One, 'midst the forests of the west, The Indian knows his place of rest, The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one, He was the loved of all, yet none One sleeps where southern vincs are drest, He wrapped his colors round his breast, |