Poems (Gould, 1833)/To Autumn

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TO AUTUMN.
By the sorrowfu' look o' the hill an' the glen,A' stripp'd o' the pride o' the simmer again,I ken ye hae come wi' your hoarse, rude breath,And pit the green grass an' sweet flowers a' to death.
Ye wad nae gie a drop o' bright glistenin dewTo soften the spot where the violet grew—An' drooping an' pale, she has pillow'd her headMid your cauld, cauld frost, on her hard death-bed.
The bird wi' her sang, ye hae bidden to fleeFrae the comfortless branch o' the shiverin tree;While, restless an' harmless, the yellow leaves fly'Twixt the dool o' the earth and the scowl o' the sky!
Ye hae torn the fond tendrils, that closely wad twineTo haud up their parent the languishin vine,An', there's nae a swee thing the mild simmer could cherish,But your sharp fingers nip, till ye ken it maun perish.
An', when ye hae finished your pitiless doinsAn' the fields are a' scattered wi' death an' wi' ruins,Cauld winter will come, wi' his snaw an' his sleet,To hide them frae sight wi' a white windin-sheet.
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How mickle to man are misfortune an' grief,Like yoursel to the earth, when ye part branch an' leaf!For when the cauld blasts o' adversity blaw,Every sweet flower o' joy frae his bosom maun fa'.
Wi' care he is wasted, an' weary, an' worn—The ties o' affection are loosened an' torn,Till the spark o' his life, 'mid the ruins, will failAn' his ashes are gien to the clods o' the vale.
Yet, he may go down in full hope o' the dawn,Ayont the dark tomb, o' eternity's morn;Where your stern chillin features nae mair will be seen,An' the flowers are a' deathless—the fields ever green.
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