TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.

Stern Winter frae the gelid north,
Wi' monie a storm comes howling forth;
And hills and glens are clad wi' sna':
While cottars roun, are wrapp'd in sleep,
O'er heartsome ingle fain I creep,
An' think o' friens, far, far awa'.

O' some nae mair I hope to see;
O' some wha ware nae thoughts o' me;
O' days when I to pleasure bow'd:
Pleasure, that caus'd me mickle pain,
And forc'd me aft the bowl to drain
Wi' life's unthinkin' senseless crowd.

Fuils tell us, friendship's but a name;
They're blest wha feel the sacred flame,
And hourly mak it brighter burn!
Grant me but friens, upright, and leel,
They'll mak me fearless o' the Deil;
And warldly cuifs I'll bauldly scorn!

Now exil'd frae the few I prize,
The town, and its misnomer'd joys,
In solitude some charms I find;
Yes, e'en in obscure lowly cot,
I thank my Maker for my lot,
For plenty, health, an' peace o' mind.

Contented wi' my daily toil;
Pleas'd wi' ilk comrade's unfeign'd smile;
What man needs wish, proud I enjoy:
Henceforth, in quiet let me live,
An' a' my thoughts to wisdom give,
The guide, whase precepts ne'er can cloy.

And thou, her daughter, to me dear,
Wha strove to dry misfortune's tear,
When mis'ry sunk my spirits low;
Why now forgetfu' o' a friend,
Thou wha sic counsel erst would lend,
Ay first to soothe a suff'rer's woe?

Has sickness numb'd thy tender frame?
Wou'd slander sully thy fair fame?
Does sorrow ca' thee still her ain?
Has hope been busy wi' new art,
To wound afresh thy feeling heart?
Has peace for ever frae thee gane?

Thou'st known enough o' pain and care;
O' sorrow thou'st e'en had thy share,
Sin youth ilk fairy picture drew:
Envy has sought to work thy fall,
Aft mix'd thy cup wi' bitterest gall;
For days o' bliss hae been but few.

Dear fav'rite o' the pensive Muse!
Thy smile a rhymin' brither woos,
O, quickly say, thou'rt yet his friend!
May He wha stills the ragin' storm,
Grant health, and shield thee ay frae harm,
Till life's last peacefu scene shall end!