68 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibbi* 

 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 

 Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 

 An' weary winter comin' fast, 

 An' cosey here, beneath the blast, 

 Thou thought to dwell. 



BOBEBT Bdbns. 



