When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'
;
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' monie an anxious day, I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less deservin,
An' thy auld days may end in starvin,
For my last fow,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue

TO A HAGGIS.

[The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people: the in gredients which compose the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains them: the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the four quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.|

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o' a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,

While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic-labour dight,

An' cut you up wi' ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reckin, rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
"Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither'd rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!

A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT

ANGUISH.

["There was a certain period of my life," says Burns, "that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed effected the ruin of my for tune. My body, too, was attacked by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following."]

O THOU Great Being! what Thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,

All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act

From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,
To suit some wise design;

Then, man my soul with firm resolves
To bear and not repine!

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

[I have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly passions. The meaning is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of passion overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merciful to the errors of one on whom he had bestowed such o'ermastering gifts.]

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause

Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,

Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.

[These verses the poet, in his common-place book, calls "Misgivings in the Hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death." He elsewhere says that they were composed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder Brst put nature on the alarm.]

WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way:
Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me
Those headlong furious passions to confine;

For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

["This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, "is worth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."]

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;