Animals and Nature

In its eye the far-off hills are mirrored— dragonfly! 1

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise. My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn! Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed never to return.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonie gem.

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar Showed him the gentleman an’ scholar.

The social, friendly, honest man, Whate’er he be, ’Tis he fulfills great Nature’s plan, And none but he!

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire, That’s a’ the learning I desire.

Nature’s law, That man was made to mourn.

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union.

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle!

Great things are done when men and mountains meet; This is not done by jostling in the street.

He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov’d by men.

A dog starv’d at his master’s gate Predicts the ruin of the state.

A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a rage.

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And water’d heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

Little Fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit? Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod? Or Love in a golden bowl?

Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life and bid thee feed By the stream and o’er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright.

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee, Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb. He is meek and he is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee!

O’er all the hilltops Is quiet now, In all the treetops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees: Wait; soon like these Thou too shalt rest. 16

I sing as the bird sings That lives in the boughs. 2