Despair not, Man, however low thy state,

Nor scorn small blessings that around thee fall; Learn to disdain the impious creed of fate, And own the Providence that governs all, If thou art baffled in thy earnest will, Thy conscience clear, thy reason not astray, Be this thy faith and consolation still, The darkest hour is on the verge of day.

J. C. PRINCE, 1808—–

BESSY AND HER SPINNIN' WHEEL

OH, LEEZÉ me on my spinnin' wheel,
Oh, leeze me on my rock and reel,
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en!
I'll sit me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal
Oh, leeze me on my spinnin' wheel!

On ilka hand the burnies trot,
And meet below my theekit cot;
The scented birk and hawthorn white
Across the pool their arms unite,

Alike to screen the birdie's nest,

And little fishes' caller rest;

The sun blinks kindly in the biel',

Where blithe I turn my spinnin' wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
And echo cons the doolfu' tale;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither's lays;
The craik amang the clover hay,
The pairtrick whirrin' o'er the ley,
The swallow jinkin' round' my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinnin' wheel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,

Oh, wha wad leave this humble state,
For a' the pride o' a' the great?
Amid their flarin', idle toys,

Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and pleasure feel

Of Bessy at her spinnin' wheel?

ROBERT BURNS, 1759–1796.

ENJOY, BUT NOT ABUSE!

HARRY! my little blue-eyed boy!
I love to hear thee playing near,
There's music in thy shouts of joy
To a fond father's ear.

I love to see the lines of mirth

Mantle thy cheek and forehead fair, As if all pleasures of the earth

Had met to revel there.

For gazing on thee do I sigh.

That these most happy hours will flee, And thy full share of misery

Must fall in life to thee.

There is no lasting grief below,

My Harry, that flows not from guiltThou can'st not read my meaning now, In after times thou wilt.

Thou 'lt read it when the church-yard clay
Shall lie upon thy father's breast;
And he, though dead, will point the way
Thou shalt be always blest.

They'll tell thee this terrestrial ball,

To man for his enjoyment given,
Is but a state of sinful thrall

To keep the soul from heaven.

My boy! the verdure-crownèd hills,

The vales where flowers innumerous blow, The music of ten thousand rills,

Will tell thee 'tis not so.

God is no tyrant, who would spread
Unnumber'd dainties to the eyes,
Yet teach the hung'ring child to dread
That touching them he dies.

No! all can do His creatures good

He scatters round with broad profuse-
The only precept understood—

“Enjoy, but not abuse.”

What though thy lot be hidden,

And proud ones pass thee by!
Feel duty as God-bidden,

Act as beneath His eye,
For work is Holy!

Cleave to thy humble place,

Ennoble it with thy zeal!
Work with a manful grace,

Make fruitless cumb'rers feel
That work is Holy!

Scorn naught as plain or mean,
All with thy worth impress!
That all where thou hast been
May day by day confess
That work is Holy !

Work while life is given,

Nor shrink though hardship scars!

True suffering fits for heaven,

There sin alone debars!

For work is Holy!

Angels' ears now listen

Thy earth-spurn'd plaintive tale!

Angels' eyes shall glisten

When they thy scars unveil,

For work is Holy!