“Composed in Spring
Again rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze
All freshly steep’d in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e!
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be!
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi’lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
The merry Ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie Seedsman stalks,
But life to me’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev’ry thing is blest but I.
The Sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shill,
Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark,’tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my chearless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e!
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be!”
Robert Burns
alessandronogueira.com 