The Bellwort

Look up, look up, thou timid thing,
Nor let thy head sae pensive hing!
I am nae tyrant come to wring
Thee frae the earth.
Thou art the daugter o' a King—
O' royal birth!

An' he, wha fashioned me to think,
Maks suns to shine, an' starnies blink—
Gies ilka root in earth its drink
An' daily fare!
So, dinna fear he'll let thee sink
Below his care.

For, tho' he formed thy slender bell
To drap within the laighlie dell,
He kens an' lo'es thee just as well
As the tall tree,
That, proud as if it made itsel
Towers over thee.

An', wha that sees his finger move,
To turn the spheres that roll above,
Will need a word o' mine to prove
That, in his sight,
Thou an' the cedar o' the grove
Are like in height?

But then, he'd hae thee be content
To live an' die where thou weft sent;
An' ne'er get a' unwisely bent
To quit the place,
Whilk thy Creator ever meant
That thou should'st grace.

Like thee, should ilka virtuous mind,
Where fa's its lot, there be resign'd,
Tho' humble here, it soon will find
That in the sequel,
The haughtiest laird o' human kind
Is but its equal!