need of enumerating the songs of Burns. As Emerson has said, "The wind
whispers them, the birds whistle them, the corn, barley, and bulrushes
hoarsely rustle them. . . . They are the property and the solace of
mankind."


THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT[*]

My loved, my honored, much respected friend![1]
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aikin in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween![2]

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[3] 10
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae[4] the pleugh;[5]
The black'ning trains o' craws[6] to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil[7] is at an end, 15
Collects his spades, his mattocks,[8] and his hoes,
Hoping the morn[9] in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward[10] bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 20