Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know;...
Whose is that noble dauntless brow? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E'en rooted foes admire? Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire,...
Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers: The furrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers; While ilka thing in nature join...