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I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,
And never miss 't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

Robert Burns

THE BANKS O' DOON

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true.

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its luve;
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae off its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

- Robert Burns

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

- James Russell Lowell

UNWASTED DAYS

FROM Under the Old Elm

The longer on this earth we live

And weigh the various qualities of men, . . .
The more we feel the high, stern-featured beauty
Of plain devotedness to duty,

Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise,
But finding amplest recompense

For life's ungarlanded expense

In work done squarely and unwasted days.

James Russell Lowell

PINE TREES AND THE SKY: EVENING

I'd watched the sorrow of the evening sky,

And smelt the sea, and earth, and the warm clover, And heard the waves, and the seagull's mocking cry.

And in them all was only the old cry,

That song they always sing "The best is over!
You may remember now, and think, and sigh,

O silly lover!"

And I was tired and sick that all was over,
And because I,

For all my thinking, never could recover

One moment of the good hours that were over.
And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die.

Then from the sad west turning wearily,
I saw the pines against the white north sky,
Very beautiful, and still, and bending over
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky.
And there was peace in them; and I
Was happy, and forgot to play the lover,
And laughed, and did no longer wish to die;
Being glad of you, O pine-trees and the sky!
Rupert Brooke

THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS

They shut the road through the woods

Seventy years ago.

Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know

There was once a road through the woods

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