Cauld.

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,   

The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,   

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

Up in the morning’s no for me,   

Up in the morning early;

When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,   

I’m sure its winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,   

A’ day they fare but sparely;

And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,   

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

Up in the morning’s no for me,   

Up in the morning early;

When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,
I’m sure its winter fairly.

Robert Burns