Till some bit callan bring me news And if we dinna haud a bouze, I'se ne'er drink mair. It's no I like to sit and swallow, Then like a swine to puke and wallow; Wi' right engine, boy hold temper - genius And spunkie, ance to make us mellow, lively And then we'll shine. Now, if ye're ane o' warld's folk, Wi' bitter sneer, Wi' you no friendship will I troke, But if, as I'm informèd weel, The flinty heart that canna feel, Come, sir, here's tae you! glance exchange Hae, there's my han', I wiss you weel, And guid be wi' you! R. B. INSCRIBED ON THE BLANK-LEAF OF A COPY OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS, PRESENTED BY THE AUTHOR. 3d April, 1786. THOU flattering mark of friendship kind, She shewed her taste refined and just Yet deviating own I must, In sae approving me; But kind still, I'll mind still The Giver in the gift A friend aboon the lift. above the sky TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. The title of this piece was originally The Gowan: the English appellation was subsequently adopted. WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flower, To spare thee now is past my power, Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter biting north Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth dust peeped The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield But thou, beneath the random bield protection O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, dry Such fate to suffering worth is given, VOL. I. 17 By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who, mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. "Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself, And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!"-HOME When it appeared, in the spring of 1786, that the love between the poet and Jean Armour had become transgression, Burns and his brother were beginning to fear that their farm would prove a ruinous concern. He yielded, nevertheless, to the wish of his unhappy partner to acknowledge her as his wife, and thus repair as far as possible the consequences of their error. He gave her such an acknowledgment in writing—a doeument sufficient in the law of Scotland to constitute what is called an irregular, though perfectly valid |