395. Sonnet on the Authorâ€™s Birthday by Robert Burns
SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged Winter, â€™mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone Povertyâ€™s dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joysâ€”
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high heavâ€™n bestowâ€™d, that mite with thee Iâ€™ll share.