s, to give, alone excels.
'twas wheacks get on their winter hap,
and thad rape secure the toil-won crap;
potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith
o' ing winter's biting, frosty breath;
the bees, rejoig o'er their summer toils,
unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,
seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,
are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
the death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:
the thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
the wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
The Brigs Of Ayr(3/20)