unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows; See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad

heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost: Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard

Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain Slow, solemn, stole:-- "Blow, blow, ye winds, with

spoiled My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain;

chittering wing, An' close thy e'e? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote

happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cower thy

thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle Beneath a scar. Ilk

wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl. Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I

Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r, Or whirling drift: Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns,

A WINTER NIGHT. When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r Far south the lift,

unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me Those headlong furious passions to confine; For all

sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? O Thou, great Governor of all below! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest

path might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? Who

offence!" Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way: Again in folly's

guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul

between: Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for

ON THE SAME OCCASION. Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? How I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill

and goodness still Delighteth to forgive.

aside, Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good;

me, With passions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept

have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done; Thou know'st that Thou hast formed

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear? In whose dread presence, ere an hour Perhaps I must appear! If I

wise design; Then, man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine!

Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath! O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death! But if I must afflicted be, To suit some

below. Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest. Sure Thou,

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O Thou Great Being! what Thou art Surpasses me to know; Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works

them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis!

nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish

nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie