Rok/Pexels

• A Winter’s Night
• When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
• Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r; 
• When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, 
• Far south the lift, 
• Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r, 
• Or whirling drift:

• Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
• Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
• While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked, 
• 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-lairing, sprattle, 
• Beneath a scar.

• Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! 
• That, in the merry months o’ spring, 
• Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
• What comes o’ thee? 
• Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing 
• An’ close thy e’e?

• Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d, 
• Lone from your savage homes exil’d, 
• The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d 
• My heart forgets, 
• While pityless the tempest wild 
• Sore on you beats.

• A Bard’s Epitaph
• Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
• Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
• Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 
• Let him draw near; 
• And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
• And drap a tear.

• Is there a bard of rustic song, 
• Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
• That weekly this area throng, 
• O, pass not by! 
• But, with a frater-feeling strong, 
• Here, heave a sigh.

• Is there a man, whose judgment clear 
• Can others teach the course to steer, 
• Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, 
• Wild as the wave, 
• Here pause and, thro’ the starting tear, 
• Survey this grave.

• The poor inhabitant below 
• Was quick to learn the wise to know, 
• And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
• And softer flame; 
• But thoughtless follies laid him low, 
• And stain’d his name!

• Reader, attend! whether thy soul 
• Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, 
• Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 
• In low pursuit: 
• Know, prudent, cautious, self-control 
• Is wisdom’s root.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns (1759-1796) was the premiere Scottish poet and balladeer, regarded in Scotland with the same reverence as Shakespeare in England. Echoing Shakespeare’s creative use of Elizabethan English, Burns’s style is immediately recognizable through his use of colloquial Scottish dialect interwoven into the English of his day. He is celebrated throughout the world on his birthday, Jan. 25, known as Burns Day, with haggis, tripe, and various and sundry malted barley distillations.