Poem by Robert Burns

Impromptu, on Mrs. Riddel’s Birthday, in November

OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr’d-
‘What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I’ve no more to say,
Give me Maria’s natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.’
‘‘Tis done!’ says Jove; so onds my story,
And Winter once rejoic’d in glory.

1. Here’s His Health in Water!
2. Theniel Menzies’ Bonnie Mary
3. To the Same
4. Lines Written under the Picture of Miss Burns
5. My Chloris

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