In strains melodious mourns her tender brood,
Snatch’d from the nest by some rude ploughman’s hand,
On some lone bough the warbler takes her stand;
The live-long night she mourns the cruel wrong,
And hill and dale resound the plaintive song.”
And hear our own matchless “ploughman bard,” in one of his sweetest lyrics, The Posie:—
“The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day,
But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away—
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.”