ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade,
By love's simplicity betray'd,

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low ' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n,

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

THERE dwelt a miller hale and bold,
Beside the river Dee;

He work'd and sang from morn to night,
No lark more blythe than he;

THE MILLER OF THE DEE.

And this the burden of his song
For ever used to be,—
"I envy nobody: no, not I,

And nobody envies me!"

"Thou'rt wrong, my friend!" said old King Hal, "Thou'rt wrong as wrong can be;

For could my heart be light as thine,
I'd gladly change with thee.

And tell me now what makes thee sing
With voice so loud and free,

While I am sad, though I'm the King,
Beside the river Dee?"

The miller smiled and doff'd his cap:
"I earn my bread," quoth he;
"I love my wife, I love my friend,
I love my children three;

I owe no penny I cannot pay ;-—
I thank the river Dee,

That turns the mill that grinds the corn,

To feed my babes and me."

"Good friend!" said Hal, and sigh'd the while,

"Farewell! and happy be;

But say no more, if thou'dst be true,

That no one envies thee.

Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,-
Thy mill my kingdom's fee!

Such men as thou are England's boast,
O miller of the Dee!"