November chill blaws load wi' angry sough; [wail]
The shortening winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through [stagger]
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. [fluttering]
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnilie, [fire]
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, [worry]
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.
Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, [Soon]
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin [drive, heedful run]
A cannie errand to a neibor town: [quiet]
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, [eye]
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, [fine]
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, [hard-won wages]
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
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