Loud blaw the wild an' wintry win's,
Wi' eerie howl an' angry thud,
Wi' blatterin' rain, an' rattlin' hail,
Loud roarin' thro' the naked wud.
The driftin' rack o' laigh-hung clouds
Is drivin' ower the murky lift;
The day is dune ere weel begun,
Syne comes the e'enin's cheerfu' thrift.
Red rows the burn frae bank t' brae;
The dowie banks are screenge't an' bare;
The flow'ris are deid, the birdies dumb-
There's no a cheep in a' the air.
The lea is wallow't, bleach't, an' bare;
The leafless thorn is red wi' haws;
An' on the fiel's o' brairdin' wheat
Comes souffin' doun the hungry craws.
Thro' driftin' snaw, an' blashie sleet,
Puir bodies wade, an' grue, an' grane;
Then comes the white-pow'd warlock frost,
An' a' he touches turns to stane.
The curlers ply the 'roarin' play,'
An' rinks are made, an' wagers ta'en;
An' loch an' muir are ringin' roun'
Wi' echoes o' the curlin' stane.
At lown dyke backs the cowrin' nowte
Ha'e biel't them frae the sleety blast
That soops frae doun the snaw-tapp't hills-
A hafflins thaw is come at last.
O! waes me for the fock that dree
Cauld poortith, an' her mony waes,
Wha seldom, e'en in winter time,
Are fill't wi' meat, or hap't wi' claes-
Ha'e scarce a spunk o' fire to warm
Their chitterin' bairnies' fingers red;
Ha'e ne'er a shoe to fend their feet,
An' scarce a blanket on the bed;-
A wee drap parritch, naething mair,
But taties an' a pickle saut;
A wee bit bread at orra times,
But nocht that comes o' beef or maut.
O! I ha'e ken'd-I ken e'en now-
O' hames to whilk a mither's care
Has brocht contentment wi' sic lot-
For mither's love, an' God's, war there!
O! ye wha ha'e o' warl's gear
Mair than ye need or wish to spen',
Let Winter's cauld juist warm yer hearts,
To help puir, needfu' workin' men.