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ROBERT BURNS

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T

HE wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw :
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

.

Winter.

“ The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"

The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join ;
The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant

This one request of mine !)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign.

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The Cotter's Saturday Night.'

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

My loved, my honour'd, much-respected friend!

No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end :

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise :
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways:

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;

The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ;

The black’ning trains o' craws to their repose ;
The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend.

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