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And can He, who smiles on all, Hear the wren, with sorrow small, 15 Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear?

And not sit beside the nest, Pouring Pity in their breast, And not sit the cradle near, 20 Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

25 He doth give His joy to all:
He becomes an infant small
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,

30 And thy Maker is not by:

Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

Oh! He gives to us His joy, That our griefs He may destroy. 35 Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan.

THE TIGER

(From The Songs of Experience, 1794)

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright

In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

5 In what distant deeps or skies Burned that fire within thine eyes? On what wings dared he aspire?

What the hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, 10 Could twist the sinews of thy heart? When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain,

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? 15 What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? 20 Did He who made the lamb make thee?

AH! SUNFLOWER

(From the same)

Ah! Sunflower! weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden prime Where the traveller's journey is done; 5 Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go!

Robert Burns

(1759-1796)

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

(1785)

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor."-Gray.

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My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;

With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and
praise:

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;

The native feelings strong, the guileless

ways,

What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,-
This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his
hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

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At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee.

His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonily,

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary kiaugh care beguile,

And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,

At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman

grown,

In youthfu' bloom,-love sparkling in her e'e-
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new

gown,

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet:
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;
The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;

The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new, 45 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's and their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey:
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,

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And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; "And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor,

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care enquires his

name,

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi'
joy,

But blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae
grave,

Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like
the lave.

Oh, happy love! where love like this is found! Oh, heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!

I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare;—

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