Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
438 . Impromptu on Mrs. Riddells Birthday
O
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:
“What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning. 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.