THE rough hail rattles thro the trees,
The sullen lilt low'rs gloomy gray,
The trav'ller sees the swelling storm,
And seeks the alehouse by the way.
But, waes me! for yon widowed wretch,
Borne doun wi years an heavy care ;
Her sapless finger, scarce can nip
The wither'd twigs tae beet her fire.
Thus youth and vigour fends itsel ;
Its help, reciprocal, is sure,
While dowless Eild, in poortith cauld,
Is lanely left tae stan the stoure.
[Semple 27]