List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle,
Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o' thee?
Where wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring wing,
An' close thy e'e?
Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone, from your savage homes exil'd,
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,
My heart forgets,
While pitiless the tempest wild,
Sore on you beats.
Now Phabe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain, Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
When on my ear this plaintive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole→→→
"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, show
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice, unrepenting,
Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man bestows!
"See stern oppression's iron grip,
Or mad Ambition's gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Wo, want, and murder o'er a land.
"Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale.
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches, in the rear,
Look o'er proud property extended wide,
And eyes the simple rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,
A creature of another kind,
Some coarser substance, unréfin'd,
"ac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.
"Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly honour's lofty brow,
The pow'rs you proudly own
Is there, beneath love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!
"Mark maiden-innocence a prey
To love pretending snares,
This boasted honour turns away,
Shunning soft pity's rising sway,
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing prayers!
Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrieks at the rocking blast!
"O ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think for a moment on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,
Stretched on his straw, he lays himself to sleep,
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!-
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch already crushed low
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow!
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"'
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage rousing craw.
But deep this truth impress'd my mind-
Thro' all his works abroad,
The heart, benevolent and kind,
The most resembles GOD.
THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May!
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join,
The leafless trees my fancy please,,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are thy will!
Then all I want (O do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,
A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh;
O life, thou art a galling load,
A lorg, a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!
Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night,
And joyless mourn the same,
You, bustling, and justling
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find every prospect vain.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or, haply to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream;
While praising, and raising
His thoughts to heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.
Then I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop and just to move,
With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!
Oh! enviable, early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
The dim declining age!
ALL hail! inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, wo-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern, resolv'd, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low'ring and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning
Round my devoted head.
And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid,
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day:
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
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