while burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
wild-eddying swirl;
or, thro' the mining outlet bocked,
down headlong hurl:
list'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle,
i thought me on the ourie cattle,
or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
o' winter war,
and thro' the drift, deep-iring, sprattle
beh a scar.
ilk happing bird,—wee, helpless thing!
that, in the merry months o' spring,
delighted me to hear thee sing,
what es o' thee?
whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
an' close thy e'e?
ev
A Winter Night(2/7)