* WINTER *

Now Winter rides wi’ angry skirl

On sleety winds that rive an’ whirl,

An’ gaberlunzie-like plays tirl

At sneck an’ lozen.

The bairns can barely bide the dirl

O’ feet gane dozin.

The ingle's heaped wi’ bleezin’ peats

An’ bits o’ splutt'rin’ firry reets

Which shortly thow the ploughmen's beets;

An’ peels appear

That trickle oot aneth their seats

A’ ower the fleer.

The auld wife's eident wheel gaes birr,

The thrifty lasses shank wi’ virr;

Till stents are finished nane will stir

Lest Yule should come,

When chiels fae wires the wark mith tirr

To sweep the lum.

The shepherd newly fae the hill

Sits thinkin’ on his wethers still;

He kens this frost is sure to kill

A’ dwinin’ sheep:

His collie, tired, curls in its tail

An’ fa's asleep.

Now Granny strips the bairns for bed:

Ower soon the extra quarter fled

For which sae sairly they had pled:

But there, it chappit;

An’ sleepy “gweed words” soon are said,

An’ cauld backs happit.

The milkers tak’ their cogues at last,

Draw moggins on, tie mutches fast,

Syne hap their lantrens fae the blast

Maun noo be met;

An’ soon the day's last jot is past,

Milk sey'd an’ set.

Syne Sandy, gantin’, raxes doon

His fiddle fae the skelf aboon,

Throws by the bag, an’ souffs a tune,

Screws up a string,

Tries antics on the shift, but soon

Starts some auld spring.

Swith to the fleer ilk eager chiel

Bangs wi’ his lass to start the reel,

Cries “Kissin’ time”; the coy teds squeal,

An’ struggle vainly:

The sappier smacks whiles love reveal,

But practice mainly.

An opening chord wi’ lang upbow

The fiddler strikes, syne gently now

Glides into some Strathspey by Gow,

Or Marshall't may be;

The dancers lichtly needle thro’;

Rab sets to Leebie.

Wi’ crackin’ thooms “Hooch! Hooch!” they reel.

The winceys, spreadin’ as they wheel,

Gie stolen glints o’ souple heel

An’ shapely queet.

The guidman claps his hands, sae weel

He's pleased to see't.

The wrinkles leave the shepherd's broo,

For see the sonsy mistress too

Shows what the aulder fouks can do,

An’, licht's a bird,

Some sober country dance trips thro’

Wi’ Jock the herd.

Syne lads wha noo can dance nae mair

To cauldrife chaumers laith repair;

An’ lasses, lauchin’, speel the stair,

Happy an’ warm.

For liftin’ hearts an’ killin’ care

Music's the charm!

When frost is keen an’ winter bauld,

An’ deep the drift on muir an’ fauld;

When mornin's dark an’ snell an’ cauld

Bite to the bane;

We turn in thocht, as to a hauld,

To some sic e'en.