Now Simmer's gowden beam withdrawn
Brings hoary Winter o'er the lawn ;
While, drivin, cauld, in awfu' form,
Bauld Boreas aids the direfu' storm.
Nae langer blooms the flowery thorn,
Whase fragrant sweets perfum'd the morn:
Nae mair o' pastime now, I ween,
The dance, the play has left the green :
Nae mair our een blythe prospects cheer;
Stern Winter blins them wi' a tear.
Ilk thing leuks dowie, dowff an' wae ;
Just like auld Nature's last decay;
And ilka hill, an' haugh, an' plain,
Scarce hechts, that Spring will come again.
The herd, poor thing! thro' chillin' air,
Tends, in the meads, his fleecy care;
Dozen'd wi' cauld, an' drivin' sleet,
Rowd in a coarse, wou'n muirlan' sheet;
Or, may be, o'er the drift-clad brae,
Frae whar he hears the lambkins bae,
He, weary, winds his road, an' slaw,
To howk them out frae 'mang the snaw.
Cauld win' soughs thro' the leafless trees :
His tawtie locks are like to freeze:
Steeve, in his plaid, ilk haun he rows,
An', wi' his breath, the cranreuch thows;
Till ance ilk dinnlin' finger glows.
Winter's keen breath has made him yap:
He langs to see the parritch cap;
Sae, up some hilloc tap, or brae,
He bends his way, baith cauld an' blae ;
To see, gif, o'er the neighb'rin' dale,
The servant brings his morning meal.
Thinn'd is the foliage o' the grove,
Whar wissfu' lovers wont to rove:
December sheets wi' ice the knowes,
An' staps the burnie as it rows.
Now, on its banks nae verdure shaws;
Nor burdie sings, nor blossom blaws;
But, frae ilk buss, the tangles gay
Hang, skinklin' in the Mornin' ray;
While ilka blast seems to conspire
To blaw out Nature's vital fire.
Yet, tho' ilk thing without leuks cauld,
The ingle bleezes, warm an' bauld;
An' lang before the cock has crawn,
Or glintin' Morn led in the Dawn,,
I wat there's mony a wight asteer,
To glad his heart wi' New'rday cheer.
Now, tho' the vera skies soud fa',
In heavy flakes o' feathery snaw:
Tho' wintry rain a deluge pour;
The bitter, bitin' tempest roar ;
Whirlin' destruction thro' the street,
An' threatenin' heaven an' earth to meet":
Yet, spite o' winter's drearest form,
The First Fit bauldly fronts the storm.
The maudlin' Het pint's heavenly power
Has rais'd a flame that bangs the shower;
That heaviest rain, in even-down drench,
An' scarce a sea itsel', cou'd quench:
The whelmin' ocean coudna choke it,
Nae mair than 'twad a Congreve's rocket.
Screevin' awa, he dreads nae harm;
The glorious beverage, reekin' warm,
He dauntless bears; an', bent on fun,
Nor Kebbuck hains, nor Curran Bun,
Thus, doubly arm'd, he onward plods,
Nor envies goddesses or gods.
Weel wat I, on Olympus tap
There's nowther sic a bit, nor drap.
Happy that frien', whase door sae blest
Is doom'd to welcome sic a guest!
There Care nae shilpit face can shaw,
He's boltit out amang the snaw.
Now, bonny Lasses, shun the street;
For ye'll be kiss'd by a' ye meet.
'But, abiins, ye're sae ill to sair o't,
Ye'll no keep in the house the mair o't.
Weel, gang your wa's-Luve send ye speed:
I'se wad, ye'll get yer mou's weel pree'd.
Now, the saft maid, whase yieldin' heart, O' Luve's keen flane has dreed the smart, Recksnae, I trow, her want o' rest, But dinks her out in a' her best; Wi' weel airn'd mutch, an' kirtle clean, To wait the hour o' Twall at e'en. Blyth hour! that, on the passin' bell, Rings out the auld year's partin' knell. Syne, whan she hears it strike, I wat, Her modest heart gangs pitty pat. Fu' anxious, now, she's on the watch, An' thinks, ilk breath, she hears the latch; Starts frae the stool, wi' wat'rin' mouth, To welcome ben the dear lo'ed youth; For wham 't had been her E'enin' care Some gusty beverage to prepare. As aft she finds hersel' mistaen,
An', dowie, sits her down again.
Sune a quick, eager step draws near-
She's no deceiv'd-it is her dear.
Her heart beats quick wi' sweet alarms:
She finds hersel' within his arms-
But here nae mair the Musie tells :
We leave the lovers to themselves.
The wight, opprest wi' toil an' care,
Minds poortith, now, an' debt nae mair;
But sweetly bends the reamin' bicker,
To drown dull care in jaws o' liquor.
Now, mony a rantin feast, weel stor'd,
Saurs sweetly on the rustic board :
The Table brags its ample store,
That held a simple meal before:
The ale gangs roun', the e'enin' lang:
Auld age unbends, and joins the sang ;
An', while he blythly slacks his drouth,
Brags o' the feats o' early youth.
The laithfu' wooers' smirkin' e'en,
In glints they wissna to be seen,
Speak the saft language o' the heart,
An' dread the minute they maun part;
Or, may be, seated side by side,
The strugglin' sigh they strive to hide;
An', laith Luve's raptures to delay,
Fix the lang wiss'd for, happy day.
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