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While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,

An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

An' hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,

An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely, westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,

That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less, and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker, and canker,

To see their cursed pride.        Robert Burns.