I tent less, and want less,
Their roomy fireside;
But hanker and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's power
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shared ;
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair 't:
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Though we ha'e little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang 's we 're hale and fier:
"Mair spier na, no fear na,"
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress;

Yet then content could make us blest; E'en then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste

Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile,

And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma' ;
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

What though, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,

But either house or hall?

Yet Nature's charms, the hills and

woods,

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit an' sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till 't, we'll time till 't,
And sing 't when we ha'e done.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,

To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in making muckle mair:
It's no in books; it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest :
If happiness ha'e not her seat

And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,

Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye, That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive through wet an'
dry,

Wi' never-ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess !

Baith careless, and fearless
Of either heaven or hell!
Esteeming, and deeming

It 's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ;

Are free alike to all.

By pining at our state;

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flattery I detest,)

This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy;

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,

The lover an' the frien';

Ye ha'e your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name;
It heats me, it beets me,
And sets me a' on flame!

O all ye Powers who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere !

The life-blood streaming through my heart,

Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.

Thou Being, All-seeing,
Oh, hear my fervent prayer;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear,

The sympathetic glow; Long since, this world's thorny ways, Had numbered out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend
In every care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean.

Oh, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin' rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine

Were glowrin' owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he's fairly het;
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An' rin an unco fit ;

But lest then, the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll 'light now, and dight now
His sweaty wizened hide.

THE AULD FARMER'S NEW. YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.

[This worthy companion poem to the humorous and tender celebration of "Poor Mailie " is said by one of the most famous appreciators of the genius of Burns to have succeeded, within his own

E

Wi' maiden air!

Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie:

knaggie,

I've seen the day Thou could ha'e gaen like ony staggie Out-owre the lay.

Though now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide's as white 's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, A bonnie grey:

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee

Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
An' set weel down a shapely shank
As e'er tread yird ;
An' could ha'e flown out-owre a stank
Like onie bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
An' fifty mark;
Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won
gear,

An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie:
Though ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.

That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:

hobble,

An' wintle like a saumont eoble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,

An' tak the road! Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road ay like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow
For pith and speed;
But every tail thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their
mettle,

An' gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,
On guid March weather,
Ha'e turned sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit,

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

An' spread abreed thy well-filled briskit, Wi' pith and power,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' slypet owre.

A WINTER NIGHT.

[Carlyle's remark upon this noble poem forms one of the tenderest tributes ever offered to the poet's genius, and for that reason alone ought to be prefixed to it in perpetuity. "How touching,"

deep,

An' threatened labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap

Aboon the timmer;
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,

Thou snoov't awa'.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa ha'e wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' monie an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we 're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan',
Than now perhaps thou 's less deservin',
An' thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fow,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
To some hained rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.

misery that broods over and around him, that even amid the storm he thinks of 'the ourie cattle, the silly sheep, and the wee helpless birdies! Yes, the tenant of the mean, lowly hut has the heart of pity for all these. This is worth a whole volume of homilies on mercy; for it is the voice of mercy itself. Burns lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."]