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TO 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:

Το spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' speckl'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 flowers 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 ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom.

The "Mountain Daisy" was composed, as the Poet has related, at the plough: the field where he crushed the "Wee modest crimson-tipped flower" lies next to that in which he turned up the nest of the Mouse, and both are on the farm of Mossgiel, and still shown to anxious inquirers by the neighbouring peasantry.-"Mossgiel," says the accurate Chambers, "is about a mile from Mauchline. It is a very plain farm-steading of the kind described in Ramsay's 'Gentle Shepherd' :—

A snug thack house, before the door a green;
Hens on the midden, ducks in dubs are seen;
On this side stands a barn, on that a byre,
A peat-stack joins, and forms a rural square ;`

except that the buildings are not thatched.

Being si

tuated at the height of the country, between the vales of the Ayr and the Irvine, it has a peculiarly bleak and ex

posed appearance, which is but imperfectly obviated by a very tall hedge and some well-grown trees which gather around it, and beneath one of which, it is said, the Poetloved to recline. The domestic accommodations consist of little more than a butt and a ben—that is, a kitchen and a small room. The latter, though in every respect most humble, and partly occupied by fixed beds, does not appear uncomfortable. Every consideration, however, in the mind of the visitor sinks beneath the one intense feeling that herewithin these four walls-warmed at this little fire-place, and lighted by this little window-lived one of the most extraordinary men that ever breathed; and here wrote some of the most celebrated poems of modern times. The house is in every respect exactly in the same condition as when the Poet lived in it." Who could wish to add any thing to a description so touching and so true as this!

The second verse of the Daisy reminds me of a stanza of an old north country song, a favourite once with the peasantry, who loved it for its truth as well as beauty:"The lark in the morning

Arises from her nest,

And mounts to the air

With the dew on her breast;
And like my jovial ploughman

Sae merrily she'll sing,

And at gloaming return

To her nest back again."

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

A YOUNG FRIEND.

May, 1786.

I.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Though it should serve nae other end Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang,

Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

II.

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye : For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attained;

And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

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