Ode To Spring. R. Burns





WHEN maukin bucks, at early fucks,
In dewy glens are seen, Sir;
And birds, on boughs, take off their mows,
Amang the leaves sae green, Sir;
Latona’s sun looks liquorish on
Dame Nature’s grand impetus,
Till his pego rise, then westward flies
To roger Madame Thetis.

Yon wandering rill that marks the hill,
And glances o’er the brae, Sir,
Slides by a bower where many a flower
Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir;
There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay,
To love they thought no crime, Sir,
The wild birds sang, the echoes rang,
While Damon’s arse beat time, Sir.

First, wi’ the thrush, his thrust and push
Had compass large and long, Sir;
The blackbird next, his tuneful text,
Was bolder, clear and strong, Sir:
The linnet’s lay came then in play,
And the lark that soar’d aboon, Sir;
Till Damon, fierce, mistim’d his arse,
And fucked quite out of tune, Sir.

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