Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request And He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide, But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God.' And certes in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. O Thou, Who poured the patriotic tide That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part! (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! TO A MOUSE ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, An' never miss 't! 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!