Robert Burns

* * *

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
  Bring autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
  Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,
  Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
  To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
  The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
  The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
  The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
  The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
  The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
  Some solitary wander;
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
  Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy, the murdering cry,
  The fluttering, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning ‘s clear,
  Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
  All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
  And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
  And every happy creature.

We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
  Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
  Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
  Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
  My fair, my lovely charmer!