That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern ruin’s plowshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till, crush’d beneath the furious weight,
Shall be thy doom!
Robert Burns, 1750–1796.
MOSSGIEL.
“There,” said a stripling, pointing with much pride
Toward a low roof, with green trees half conceal’d,
“Is Mossgiel farm; and that’s the very field