LUCY.

The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,

A' for the sake of their true loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O, lang, lang, may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spence
Come sailing to the land.

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,
Wi' their gold kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For they'll see them nae mair.

O, forty miles off Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

113

LUCY.-Wordsworth.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love,

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;

And she I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy morning showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine, too, is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

TO A MOUSE,

ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH.-Burns.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie,
O, what a panic 's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hastie,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin and 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 blessing wi' the lave,2

An' never miss 't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin;
Its silly wa's the wins are strewin;
An' naething, now, to big3 a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's wind ensuin',

Baith snell and 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 past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou 's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

1 An ear of corn, now and then. 4 Biting.

5 Without.

An' cranreuch' cauld!

115

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,'
In proving foresight may be vain ;
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,

2

An' leave us naught but grief an' pain
For promised joy.

Still thou art blessed, compared with 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.

WEE, modest, crimson-tippéd flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure3

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem!

Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' speckled breast,

When upward springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

1 Alone.

2 Wrong.

3 Dust.

117

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

Cauld blew the bitter, biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted' forth,
Amid the storın!

Scarce reared above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield2

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the hisție3 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 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 given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven;
By human pride or cunning driven