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Robert Burns - A Winter Night
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When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro` the leafless bow`r;
When Phœbus 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.
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