Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Sparrow
By Robert Dinsmoor (17571836)P
Why should my moul-board gie thee sorrow?
This day thou’ll chirp, an’ mourn the morrow,
Wi’ anxious breast—
The plough has turn’d the mould’ring furrow
Deep o’er thy nest.
Thy nest was plac’d wi’ curious skill;
There I espy’d thy little bill
Beneath the shade,—
In that sweet bower secure frae ill,
Thine eggs thou laid.
An’ through the stalks thine head thou pappit;
The drawing nowt couldna’ be stappit,
I quickly foun’,—
Syne frae thy cozie nest thou happit,
An’ flutt’ring ran.
In vain I tri’d the plough to steer;
A wee bit stumpie i’ the rear
Cam’ ’tween my legs,
An’ to the gee side gart me veer,
An’ crush thine eggs.
Thy faithfu’ mate flits roun’ to guard ye.
Connubial love! a pattern wordy
The pious priest!
What savage heart could be sae hardy
As wound thy breast?
(It gars me greet to see thee pine),
It may be serves His great design,
Who governs all;
Omniscience tents wi’ eyes divine,
The Sparrow’s fall.
Their joys an’ pains were equal carried;
But now, ah me! to grief they’re hurried,
Without remead;
When all their hope and treasure’s buried
’Tis sad indeed.
Their sweet wee bairns laid i’ the mools,
That sovereign Pow’r, who nature rules,
Has said so be it;
But poor blin’ mortals are sic’ fools,
They canna’ see it.
Has fixt our lot as sure as fate is,
And when he wounds, he disna’ hate us,
But only this—
He’ll gar the ills that here await us,
Yield lasting bliss.