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;...
Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea: Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,...
This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord. ...
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,...
When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spy'd a man whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care;...