Two seasonal poems by Robert Burns, one elegiac and introspective in tone, the other light-hearted. And another contrast: the first is in standard English, the second in Scots.

                    THE LAZY MIST

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,

As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,

And all the gay foppery of Summer is flown:

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,

How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues.

How long I have liv’d – but how much liv’d in vain;

How little of life’s scanty span may remain:

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn;

What ties, cruel fate, in my bosom has torn.

How foolish or worse, till our summit is gain’d!

And downward, how weaken’d, how darken’d, how pain’d!

Life is not worth having with all it can give,

For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

    UP IN THE MORNING EARLY

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,

The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shill’s I hear the blast,

I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

Up in the morning’s no for me,

Up in the morning early;

When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,

I’m sure it is winter fairly.

~

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,

A’ day they fare but sparely;

And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,

I’m sure it’s winter  fairly.

Up in the morning’s no for me, etc.