It’s later than Monday and this is a short intro, but I wanted to at least get this out there before the week escapes me. More A/V fun from MV! You know that MV all-star Katie McCormick was snooping around Pittsburgh last week; she helped me name a previously-ignored Robert Burns statue I’ve probably walked by 50 times. Robert Burns! 1759-1796, Scottish, we’ve read him here before several times, his poems are almost always a fun read… here’s one I hadn’t seen before but that was nonetheless readily internet-available. Enjoy! And enjoy the photos of your editor and Ms. McCormick, archivist extraordinaire, trying to ascend to Mr. Burns’ great heights. -ed.
A WINTER 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,
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.