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.