Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! 
  Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! 
  An’ naething now to big a new ane,
  O’ foggage green! 
  An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuin,
  Baith snell an’ keen!

  Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
  An’ weary winter comin fast,
  An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
  Thou thought to dwell—­
  Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed
  Out thro’ thy cell.

  That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
  Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! 
  Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
  But house or hald,
  To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
  An’ cranreuch cauld!

  But mousie, thou art no thy lane
  In proving foresight may be vain: 
  The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
  Gang aft agley,
  An’ lea’e us naught but grief an’ pain
  For promised joy!

  Still, thou art bleat compared wi’ me! 
  The present only toucheth thee: 
  But och!  I backward cast my e’e,
  On prospects drear! 
  An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
  I guess an’ fear!

  TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

  ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786

  Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,
  Thou’s met me in an evil hour,
  For I maun crush amang the stoure
  Thy slender stem;
  To spare thee now is past my pow’r,
  Thou bonie gem.

  Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
  The bonie lark, companion meet,
  Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet,
  Wi’ spreckled breast,
  When upward springing, blythe, to greet
  The purpling east.

  Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
  Upon thy early, humble birth;
  Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
  Amid the storm,
  Scarce reared above the parent-earth
  Thy tender form.

  The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
  High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield;
  But thou, beneath the random bield
  O’ clod or stane,
  Adorns the histie stibble-field,
  Unseen, alane.

  There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
  Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
  Thou lifts thy unassuming head
  In humble guise;
  But now the share uptears thy bed,
  And low thou lies!

  Such is the fate of artless maid,
  Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade! 
  By love’s simplicity betray’d,
  And guileless trust,
  Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid,
  Low i’ the dust.

  Such is the fate of simple bard,
  On life’s rough ocean luckless starred! 
  Unskilful he to note the card
  Of prudent lore,
  Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
  And whelm him o’er!

  Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
  Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
  By human pride or cunning driv’n
  To mis’ry’s brink;
  Till, wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
  He, ruined, sink!