CXXXVII.
Reading edition
IMPROMPTU,
ON MRS. R——’S BIRTHDAY.
[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart which his verses “On a lady famed for her caprice” inflicted on the accomplished Mrs. Riddel.]
Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr’d,— What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night’s horrid car drags, dreary, slow: My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I’ve no more to say, Give me Maria’s natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; ’Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.