The morning breaks bonny o’er mountain and stream,
An’ troubles the hallowed breath of my dream. 
The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e’e,
But ghost-gathering midnight, thou’rt dearer to me. 
The dull common world then sinks from my sight,
And fairer creations arise to the night;
When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e’e,
Then bright are the visions awakened to me!

Oh, come, spirit-mother! discourse of the hours
My young bosom beat all its beating to yours,
When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell
On ears—­how unheedful, proved sorrow might tell! 
That deathless affection nae sorrow could break;
When all else forsook me, ye would na forsake;
Then come, oh my mother! come often to me,
An’ soon an’ for ever I’ll come unto thee!

An’ then, shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean,
How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen! 
’Twas kind—­for the love that your e’e kindled there
Will burn, ay an’ burn, till that breast beat nae mair—­
Our bairnies sleep round me, oh bless ye their sleep! 
Your ain dark-eyed Willie will wauken and weep! 
But blythe through his weepin’, he’ll tell me how you,
His heaven-hamed mammie, was dauting his brow.

Though dark be our dwellin’, our happin’ tho’ bare,
And night closes round us in cauldness and care,
Affection will warm us—­and bright are the beams
That halo our hame in yon dear land o’ dreams: 
Then weel may I welcome the night’s deathly reign,
Wi’ souls of the dearest I mingle me then;
The gowd light of morning is lightless to me,
But, oh for the night with its ghost revelrie!

But even more interesting than the poems themselves, is the autobiographical account prefixed, with its vivid sketches of factory life in Aberdeen, of the old regime of 1770; when “four days did the weaver’s work—­Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, were of course jubilee.  Lawn frills gorged (?) freely from under the wrists of his fine blue gilt-buttoned coat.  He dusted his head with white flour on Sunday, smirked and wore a cane; walked in clean slippers on Monday; Tuesday heard him talk war bravado, quote Volney, and get drunk:  weaving commenced gradually on Wednesday.  Then were little children pirn-fillers, and such were taught to steal warily past the gate-keeper, concealing the bottle.  These wee smugglers had a drop for their services, over and above their chances of profiting by the elegant and edifying discussions uttered in their hearing.  Infidelity was then getting fashionable.”  But by the time Thom enters on his seventeen years’ weaving, in 1814, the Nemesis has come.  “Wages are six shillings a-week where they had been forty; but the weaver of forty shillings, with money instead of wit, had bequeathed his vices to the weaver of six shillings, with wit instead of money.”  The introduction of machinery works evil rather than good, on account of the reckless way in which it is used, and the reckless