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THE Scottish hinds, too poor to house
In frosty nights their starving cows,
While not a blade of grass or hay
Appears from Michaelmas to May,
Must let their cattle range in vain
For food along the barren plain,
Meagre and lank with fasting grown,
And nothing left but skin and bone;
Expos'd to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and soul together,
Till summer showers and evening's dew
Again the verdant glebe renew;
And, as the vegetables rise,

The famish'd cow her want supplies:
Without an ounce of last year's flesh;

Whate'er she gains is young and fresh ;
Grows plump and round, and full of mettle,
As rising from Medea's kettle,

With youth and beauty to enchant
Europa's counterfeit gallant.

VOL XỈ.

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