John Lapraik

Winter

STERN Winter comes, with threat’ning frown,
	Now it must have its place;
The sun grows weak, and seems far spent,
	While frosts all growth deface.

The verdant foliage of each tree
	Is stript and torn away,
While Spring and Summer’s bloom we fee,
	Can now no longer stay.

The Winter now the sceptre sways,
	And nipping North winds blow;
The frosts and ice make all obey,
	Blind Mills that they can’t go.

Most beings feel it’s fur’ous hand,
	And with reluctance yield:
Te flowing rills arrested stand,
	While snow o’erspreads the field.

Great tempests roll along the sky;
	The beasts in forests groan!
Beneath it’s force they weary lie,
	Though hid from raging storm.

The plaid-wrapt herd stands shiv’ring, cold,
	And dares not speel yon rocks,
To seek such sheep as may be smoor’d,
	And lie as snug’s a fox.

The bleating flock, of meat so keen,
	Goes nibbling round the hill;
Ev’n when the Herd does fore complain,
	Rude Boreas blows chill.

In ir’n-bound frost the grass lies dead,
	And flow’rs that charm’d the eye;
Yet balmy Zephyrs shall succeed,
	And all that frost destroy.

Some other climes beyond the line,
	Have now their sultry day;
Though we lie here and fore repine,
	We know of it’s decay.

Yet still there’s something gives delight;
	Loud thunders seldom roll,
And earthquakes seldom us affright,
	That terrify the soul!

May fancy bid hot climes farewell;
	Diseases there do rise;
In this cold clime we’re healthy still;
	We’re under milder skies.

Then why should we think foreign climes
	Excell our native land,
Where fur’ous earthquakes oft destroy
	What’s giv’n by Nature’s hand?

The sun appears to lose it’s strength,
	When that the days grow short;
The early night resumes its length,
	Yet seldom does man hurt.

The skies each morning are serene,
	The clouds all swept aside;
The streams with ice congealed are,
	Till wet with some spring tide.

The tenants of the grove all droop,
	With cold they cannot sing;
They Blackbird now forgets her song,
	Her harp the colds unstring.

This Winter that hath shut the year,
	Perhaps my life may close,
Then from the stage I’ll disappear,
	And quit my joys and woes!

Where are my former years now gone,
	Or what avails my smile,
Since Death, with his malignant frown,
	Doth my hopes beguile?

May ‘magination build more high,
	Than things on earth that lie,
And may my thoughts, with ready sigh,
	Reach far beyond the sky!

	POSTSCRIPT

My Muse she begs to shift the scene,
	While storms and tempests roar;
She’s not well pleas’d in this cold time;
	She’s haughty, proud and sour.

She bids me leave my pen, and fly
	Straight to some public Inn,
Where fire and whisky storms defy,
	And sons of Bacchus sing.

Then send a friendly quaff of Ale
	Round, foaming o’er the lips;
In ev’ry pint a whisky gill,
	Between twa tankards mix.

Then fly the moments sweetly by,
	Though storms that house invest,
Till fumes of drink and sleep betray
	And lull our tongues to rest.