Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
     Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 
     Or canst thou break that heart of his,
     Whase only faut is loving thee? 
     If love for love thou wilt na gie,
     At least be pity to me shown;
     A thought ungentle canna be
     The thought o’ Mary Morison.

1781

Winter:  A Dirge

     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 Power 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.

Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish

     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!

Paraphrase Of The First Psalm

     The man, in life wherever plac’d,
     Hath happiness in store,
     Who walks not in the wicked’s way,
     Nor learns their guilty lore!

     Nor from the seat of scornful pride
     Casts forth his eyes abroad,
     But with humility and awe
     Still walks before his God.

     That man shall flourish like the trees,
     Which by the streamlets grow;
     The fruitful top is spread on high,
     And firm the root below.

     But he whose blossom buds in guilt
     Shall to the ground be cast,
     And, like the rootless stubble, tost
     Before the sweeping blast.

     For why? that God the good adore,
     Hath giv’n them peace and rest,
     But hath decreed that wicked men
     Shall ne’er be truly blest.