Ode to Autumn (Westlin’ Winds)
Robbie Burns (1759 - 96)
Now westlin' winds and slaughtering guns bring Autumn's pleasant weather, The moorcock springs on whirring wings above the bloomin' heather, The waving grain wild o'er the plain, delights the weary farmer, The moon shines bright as I stroll at night to muse upon my charmer. The pheasant loves the fruit-filled fells, the plover loves the mountain, The moorcock haunts the lonely dells, the soaring heron the fountain, Through every grove the cushat roves, the path of man to shun it, The hazel bush overhangs the thrush, the spreading thorn the linnet. Thus every kind their pleasure find, the savage and the tender, Some social join and leagues combine, some solitary wander. Avant away, the cruel sway, tyrannic man's dominion, The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry, the fluttering gory pinion. And now, my dear, the evening's clear, thick fly the skimming swallow, The sky is blue, the fields in view, are faded green and yellow, So let us stray our gladsome way, to view the charms of Nature, The rustling corn, the fruited thorn and every happy creature. We'll gently walk and sweetly talk, ‘til the silent moon shines clearly, I'll grasp your waist and fondly pressed, swear how I love you dearly, Not vernal showers to budding flowers, not Autumn to the farmer, So dear to me as thou can be, my own, my lovely charmer.