SONNET WRITTEN ON HE AUTHOR'S BIRTHDAY,
ON HEARING A TRUSH SING IN HIS MORNING WALK

SING on, sweet trush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See agèd Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys—
What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief;
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass,
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass:
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy curst restriction:
I've seen the opressor's cruel smile
Amid his hapless victim's spoil;
And for thy potence vainly wished,
To crush the vilain in the dust:
For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.