It is a dark December day—
Roger now and Rab foregather;
And as they jog alang the way,
Roger bans the Winter weather.
.mw-parser-output .wst-asc{font-variant:all-small-caps}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials{white-space:nowrap}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials>span:not(:first-child){padding-left:0.16em}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials.wst-asc-initials-nospace>span:not(:first-child){padding-left:0}ROGER.
Mishanter grip thee by the snout,
Winter! misleirt, rampaugin' lout!
Wha maks sae meikle din and rout
Roun' our stack-yeard,
Tirring and blawing a' about,
Without regard.
Nor lum nor rigging dost thou spare,
O' lime and thack thou peels them bare,
Raips, divots, harrows laid wi' care,
To hand things down,
Thou swirls them a' into the air;
Out-owr the moon.
Wi' cranreuch, sleet, and driftin' snaw,
And whiles wi' weet an unco jaw,
Eneuch to smoor or drown us a',
Thou comest like wud;
Syn thou lockest up wi' frozen paw
Baith eard and flood.
Thy nights sae langsum, doure, and dark,
(Whan Witch and Warlock work their wark,
And auld Mahoun, wi' rairing bark,
His cantraps plays)
Gar mony a chiel, though ne'er sae stark,
Douk neth the claes.
RAB.
Hoot, Roger, haud your jawnering gab,
And dinna peenge sae sair, and sab,
But listen for a while to Rab,
Wha likes fu' weel,
Whan Winter nips him by the neb,
Auld-farrand chiel!
Fair-fa' thee, halesome, canty carl!
There's ne'er a spat in a' the warl',
That wadna bliss thy gowl and snarl,
Whan fell disease,
In Death's black chariot taks a hurl,
Ayont the seas.
The sun may bleeze aboon the line,
And ripen diamonds i' the mine,
He but augments the wretches pine,
Wha peghing meanes,
And for ae frozen gem o' thine,
Cauld Winter! granes.
But waesucks! he will vainly cry;
Winter careers anither sky,
Whare Death contagious darena try
His smittal pranks,
Nor spread for lads like us his ply
O venomed fancks.
And though but short are winter days,
How blythe at e'en the ingle's blaze!
Blinkin' wi' bright, though fitfu' rays,
Athort the room;
While crack, and sangs, and merry says
Lang nights consume.
And while on furms beside the wa',
Cozie we sit, wi' lasses braw,
We carena for the blasts that blaw
About the bigging,
And reck not o' the wreaths o' snaw,
That theek the rigging.
I'd rather hae the like o' this—
The freinsom jibe, the willing kiss,
Nor a' that Southrons brag o' bliss
In shady bowers,
Whare serpent Luve will sting, or hiss,
Amang the flowers.
Our benisons are free frae stealth,
Our hills supply the breeze o' health,
We row in plenty, peace, and wealth,
While Gladness rings,
And Winter lends a heartsome tilth
To sic braw things.
Wi' a' his vain paraud and racket,
The daintiest Southron ere was clacket,
Wad swap his silken, slavish jacket,
And be right glad,
For Caledonia's worset fecket,
And Freedom's plaid.
Sae, Roger, whisht! Nae lan' can be
Without dishorts o' some degree;—
Come, let us taste the barley-bree—
Though no like wine,
It foams, my frien', but for the Free,
Sae ne'er repine.