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8. The butter, in spite of his scolding and warning,
Is, if possible, worse than he had in the morning:
9. Not much, to be sure, at the best he could boast,
And his dinner mischance had extinguished the most,
10. No longer the course of misfortune we trace:
But we thought we could draw from his pitiful case
little house and a wife of your own in't.
Get a snug
TO A MOUSE.ROBERT BURNS.
ON TURNING ONE UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGE.
1. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Wi’ bickering brattle !*
Wi' murd’ring pattle.t
2. I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
Which makes thee startle
And fellow mortal !
3. I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve :
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live!
* A short race.
A daimen icker* in a thrave,
'S a sma' request :
And never miss't.
4. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the winds are strewin'!
O' foggage green!
Baith snell and keen !
5. Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out through thy cell.
6. That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble;
But house or hald,
And cranreuch cauld!
7. But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain :
Gang aft a-gley,**
For promised joy.
8. Still art thou blest, compared wi' me !
The present only toucheth thee : * An ear of corn now and then. + A shock of corn. The rest. Snugly.
| The hoarfrost. | Not alone. ** Off the right line, wrong.
But oh! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!
I guess and fear.
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.-G. P. MORRIS.
1. Why dost thou come at set of sun
Those pensive words to say ?
And who is Will I pray ?
2. Why come you
And is Will really poor?
3. If poverty's his crime, let mirth
From out his heart be driven ;
And never is forgiven.
4. Art Will himself? It must be so,
I learn it from thy moan ;
As deeply as his own.
5. Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat
While other birds repose ?
The mystery disclose.
6. Still “ Whip-poor-will," --Art thou a sprite From unknown regions sent,
To wander in the gloom of night
And ask for punishment ?
7. Is thine a conscience sore beset
With guilt or what is worse,
No money in thy purse ?
8. If this be thy hard fate indeed,
Ah, well mayst thou repine !
The poet's doom is thine.
9. Art thou a lover, Will ?-hast proved
The fairest can deceive ?
Since Adam wedded Eve.
10. Hast trusted in a friend, and seen
No friend was he in need ?
Upon as frail a reed.
11. Hast thou in seeking wealth and fame
A crown of brambles won ?
12. Hast found the world a Babel wide
Where man to mammon stoops ;
While modest merit droops ?
13. What none of these? Then whence thy pain
it who's the skill ?
Why I should whip-poor-will!
14. Dost merely ask thy just desert ?
What not another word ?
I would not harm thee, bird !
15. But treat thee kindly-for my nerves,
Like thine have penance done;
Who shall 'scape whipping ?-NONE !
16. Farewell, poor Will not valueless
This lesson by thee given ;
Thyself alone to Heaven !
THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE.--Tart's MAGAZINE
1. Away, away, I burst !
Who will follow me? who?
And I'm off !—Whiz, whistle, whew!
2. With my glowing heart of fire,
And my never tiring arm,
With its space-destroying charm,
Like an arrow swift and true;
I sing out-Whiz, whistle, whew!
3. The citizen stood in my path,
With the bower of delights he had made, And proudly he vowed, in his wrath,
That his privacy none should invade;