The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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JANUARY. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
JANUARY.
Now bleak winter on the mountains
Whirls on heaps the powder'd snow,
Seals with ice the sandy fountains,
While the streams can scarcely flow.
Whirls on heaps the powder'd snow,
Seals with ice the sandy fountains,
While the streams can scarcely flow.
180
Starving grouse forsake the rushes,
Covered is their winter store,
Seek for shelter in the bushes,
While the heath is drifted o'er.
Covered is their winter store,
Seek for shelter in the bushes,
While the heath is drifted o'er.
Trees beneath their loads are bending;
Firs like ostrich plumes appear;
Partridge tame the barn attending,
Pick the grain with stealthy fear.
Firs like ostrich plumes appear;
Partridge tame the barn attending,
Pick the grain with stealthy fear.
Hares the snow-drifts wander over,
Forced the hawthorn buds to eat;
Lost in snow the sprigs of clover,
Covered are the blades of wheat.
Forced the hawthorn buds to eat;
Lost in snow the sprigs of clover,
Covered are the blades of wheat.
Now the thrasher, old and weary,
Stops the northern door with straw;
But the tempest, wild and dreary,
Finds a way through ev'ry flaw.
Stops the northern door with straw;
But the tempest, wild and dreary,
Finds a way through ev'ry flaw.
Notes of bass the cattle humming,
Patient for their fodder call,
Waiting long to see it coming,
White with snow within the stall.
Patient for their fodder call,
Waiting long to see it coming,
White with snow within the stall.
Starved from woods, the beauteous pheasant
Leaves the icy boughs and mourns,
Haunts the cottage of the peasant,—
Snows may melt, it ne'er returns.
Leaves the icy boughs and mourns,
Haunts the cottage of the peasant,—
Snows may melt, it ne'er returns.
181
Thus the maids, their parents leaving,
Wanton to the city fly,
Soon with woes their breasts are heaving,—
Virtue, honour, beauty, die!
Wanton to the city fly,
Soon with woes their breasts are heaving,—
Virtue, honour, beauty, die!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |