Still, thou art bleft, compar'd wi' me! The prefent only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward caft my e'e, On profpects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna fee; I guess an' fear! TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY, On turning one down, with the Plough, in April—1786. EE, modeft, crimson-tipped flow'r, WH For I maun crush amang the ftoure Thy flender ftem: To fpare thee now is paft my pow'r, Thou bonie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor fweet, The bonie Lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'amang the dewy weet! Wi's fpreckl'd breaft, When upward-fpringing, blythe, to greet The purpling East. Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet Yet chearfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the Parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our Gardens yield, High-fhelt'ring woods and wa's maun fhield, But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or ftane, Adorns the hiftie Stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy fcanty mantle clad, Thy fnawie bofom fun-ward fpread, Thou lifts thy unaffuming head In humble guife; But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artlefs Maid, And guileless trust, Till fhe, like thee, all foil'd, is laid Low i' the duft. Such is the fate of fimple Bard, Of prudent Lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to fuffering worth is given, By By human pride or cunning driv'n To Mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry ftay but HEAV'N, Ev'n thou who mourn'ft the Daify's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, The VICAR of WELLAND'S Mounmental Infcription A wrote by himself. Vicar I am, and a Pluralist too, At Welland, the place of my birth; This stone will record that at Kempfey I lived, It will tell that most happily twice I was wiv'd Of the hour of his death no prieft is aware, To my When I proftrate fhall lie, what a pleasure 'twill be To know I fhall meet either bride e; For tho' living they both were delightful to me, I never had two by my fide. THE THE SPORTSMAN: O FT when I've feen the new-fledg'd morn arise, No bufy vender dins with clam'rous call, Mark Mark the loose frame, yet impotently bold, But we, my friend, with aims far diff'rent borne, Onward our courfe diverfify'd we bend, The sport begun. Heav'n! what delights my active mind renew, |