THE NATURALIST AND COLLECTOR 
The Blackbird in Winter. 
Poor bird! my heart is truly vvae, 
Forlorn to see thee wand’rin’ sae, 
Whar ilka thing’s thy mortal fae, 
E’en heav’n’s vice-gerent— 
Unfeelin’ man—he awaits to slay 
Thee like a tyrant. 
Aft times whan e’enin’ frae her den, 
Staw saftly up the dewy glen, 
I’ve seen thee far frae treach’rous men 
Thy sonnet singin’, 
While loud resoundin’ to thy strain 
The groves were ringin’. 
But ah! the times are sadly chang’d; 
The leafy forest where thou rang’d 
Clean bare by gurly winter scraing’d, 
Nae bield it yie’ls 
An’ hunger makes thee quite estrang’d 
To open fiel’s. 
In hoary mist wi’ biting breath, 
Stern winter reigns in gloomy wrath, 
Though calm the air yet fraught wi’ death 
It brings starvation, 
An’ thou maun seek, to scape the scaith, 
Some ’ither station. 
Alas, before the cottage door, 
In humble mood Lhou’s fain to cow’r; 
Though bawdrons crouching to devour, 
An’ riddle traps, 
Await thee still, thou looks them o’er 
For antrin scraps. 
Yet ah! in this thou’s no thy lane; 
Thy fate is aft the fate o’ men, 
Wha in their actions fair an’ plain, 
Nae guile expect’d 
Till driv’n on knaves quite unforseen 
They’re fairly wreck’d. 
Happy thy fate compar’d wi’ their’s; 
Returnin’ spring shall end thy cares, 
But ah! nae, changin’ time repair 
The broken heart; 
Still weepin’ recollection tears 
Wi’ double smart. 
37 
From an Old Poet. 
