Syne spread the silk an’ tak the gate, In blast an’ blaudin’ rain, deil hae’t! The hale toon glintin’, stane an’ slate, Wi’ cauld an’ weet, An’ to the Court, gin we’se be late, Bicker oor feet. And at the Court, tae, aft I saw Whaur Advocates by twa an’ twa Gang gesterin’ end to end the ha’ In weeg an’ goon, To crack o’ what ye wull but Law The hale forenoon. That muckle ha,’ maist like a kirk, I’ve kent at braid mid-day sae mirk Ye’d seen white weegs an’ faces lurk Like ghaists frae Hell, But whether Christian ghaist or Turk Deil ane could tell. The three fires lunted in the gloom, The wind blew like the blast o’ doom, The rain upo’ the roof abune Played Peter Dick— Ye wad nae’d licht enough i’ the room Your teeth to pick! But, freend, ye ken how me an’ you, The ling-lang lanely winter through, Keep’d a guid speerit up, an’ true To lore Horatian, We aye the ither bottle drew To inclination. Sae let us in the comin’ days Stand sicker on our auncient ways— The strauchtest road in a’ the maze Since Eve ate apples; An’ let the winter weet our cla’es— We’ll weet oor thrapples. TO SIDNEY COLVIN [_Edinburgh_, _Autumn_ 1875.] MY DEAR COLVIN,—_Fous ne me gombrennez pas_. Angry with you? No. Is the thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one masterpiece fewer in the world. The world can ill spare it, but I, sir, I (and here I strike my hollow bosom so that it resounds) I am full of this sort of bauble; I am made of it; it comes to me, sir, as the desire to sneeze comes upon poor ordinary devils on cold days, when they should be getting out of bed and into their horrid cold tubs by the light of a seven o’clock candle, with the dismal seven o’clock frost-flowers all over the window. Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to give me money, you would oblige, sincerely yours, R. L. S. I have a scroll of _Springtime_ somewhere, but I know that it is not in very good order, and do not feel myself up to very much grind over it. I am damped about _Springtime_, that’s the truth of it. It might have been four or five quid! Sir, I shall shave my head, if this goes on. All men take a pleasure to gird at me. The laws of nature are in open war with me. The wheel of a dog-cart took the toes off my new boots. Gout has set in with extreme rigour, and cut me out of the cheap refreshment of beer. I leant my back against an oak, I thought it was a trusty tree, but first it bent, and syne—it lost the Spirit of Springtime, and so did Professor Sidney Colvin, Trinity College, to me.—Ever yours, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.