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I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Which makes thee startie
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
'S a sma' request;
An' never iniss 't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin;
O’ foggage green!
Baith snell* and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
Thou thought to dweil,
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
But house or hald,
An' cranreuch" cauld !
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
Gang aft a-gley,
For promised joy.
Still thou art blessed, compared with me!
On prospects drear, -
I guess an' fear.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH. - Burns.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thy slender stem :
Thou bonnie gem!
Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet,
Wi' speckled breast,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter, biting north
Amid the storm!
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
O clod or stane,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of simple bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er.
Such fate to suffering worth is given,
To mis’ry's brink;
He, ruined, sink.
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
E’en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom;
Shall be thy doom!
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. - Mrs. Hemans,
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee, -
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream, is laid,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain ;
On a blood-red field of Spain.
o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed
About one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O Earth!
THE SOLITARY REAPER. -- Wordsworth.
Behold her, single in the field,
No nightingale did ever chant