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 murdering 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!

     Now Phoebe in her midnight reign,
     Dark-muff’d, view’d the dreary plain;
     Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
     Rose in my soul,
     When on my ear this plantive strain,
     Slow, solemn, stole:—­

     “Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 
     And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! 
     Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! 
     Not all your rage, as now united, shows
     More hard unkindness unrelenting,
     Vengeful malice unrepenting. 
     Than heaven-illumin’d Man on brother Man bestows!

     “See stern Oppression’s iron grip,
     Or mad Ambition’s gory hand,
     Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
     Woe, Want, and Murder o’er a land! 
     Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale,
     Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
     How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side,
     The parasite empoisoning her ear,
     With all the servile wretches in the rear,
     Looks o’er proud Property, extended wide;
     And eyes the simple, rustic hind,
     Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show—­
     A creature of another kind,
     Some coarser substance, unrefin’d—­
     Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!

     “Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe,
     With lordly Honour’s lofty brow,
     The pow’rs you proudly own? 
     Is there, beneath Love’s noble name,
     Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
     To bless himself alone? 
     Mark maiden-innocence a prey
     To love-pretending snares: 
     This boasted Honour turns away,
     Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway,
     Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray’rs! 
     Perhaps this hour, in Misery’s squalid nest,
     She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
     And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

     “Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
     Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
     Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
     Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 
     Ill-satisfy’d keen nature’s clamorous call,
     Stretch’d on his