Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
     No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! 
     The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head,
     The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

     Perhaps a mother’s anguish adds its woe;
     The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side;
     Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide
     That life a mother only can bestow!

     Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait
     The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
     I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn,
     And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

Delia, An Ode

“To the Editor of The Star.—­Mr. Printer—­If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from—­Yours, &c., R. Burns.

          Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.”

     Fair the face of orient day,
     Fair the tints of op’ning rose;
     But fairer still my Delia dawns,
     More lovely far her beauty shows.

     Sweet the lark’s wild warbled lay,
     Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
     But, Delia, more delightful still,
     Steal thine accents on mine ear.

     The flower-enamour’d busy bee
     The rosy banquet loves to sip;
     Sweet the streamlet’s limpid lapse
     To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip.

     But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
     Let me, no vagrant insect, rove;
     O let me steal one liquid kiss,
     For Oh! my soul is parch’d with love.

The Gard’ner Wi’ His Paidle

     Tune—­“The Gardener’s March.”

     When rosy May comes in wi’ flowers,
     To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers,
     Then busy, busy are his hours,
     The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

     The crystal waters gently fa’,
     The merry bards are lovers a’,
     The scented breezes round him blaw—­
     The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

     When purple morning starts the hare
     To steal upon her early fare;
     Then thro’ the dews he maun repair—­
     The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

     When day, expiring in the west,
     The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest,
     He flies to her arms he lo’es the best,
     The Gard’ner wi’ his paidle.

On A Bank Of Flowers

     On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
     For summer lightly drest,
     The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
     With love and sleep opprest;
     When Willie, wand’ring thro’ the wood,
     Who for her favour oft had sued;
     He gaz’d, he wish’d
     He fear’d, he blush’d,
     And trembled where he stood.