The Storm - By Robert Tannahill

Now the dark rains of autumn discolour the brook,
And the rough winds of winter the woodlands deform,
Here, lonely, I lean by the sheltering rock,
A-list'ning the voice of the loud-howling storm.

Now dreadfully furious it roars on the hill,
The deep-groaning oaks seem all writhing with pain;
Now awfully calm, for a moment 'tis still,
Then bursting it howls and it thunders again.

How cheerless and desert the fields now appear,
Which so lately in summer's rich verdure were seen,
And each sad drooping spray from its heart drops a tear,
As seeming to weep its lost mantle of green.

See, beneath the rude wall of yon ruinous pile,
From the merciless tempest the cattle have fled,
And yon poor patient steed, at the gate by the stile,
Looks wistfully home for his sheltering shed.

Ah! who would not feel for yon poor gipsy race,
Peeping out from the door of the old roofless barn;
There my wandering fancy her fortunes might trace,
And sour Discontent there a lesson might learn.

Yet oft in my bosom arises the sigh,
That prompts the warm wish distant scenes to explore;
Hope gilds the fair prospect with visions of joy,
That happiness reigns on some far distant shore.

But yon grey hermit-tree which stood lone on the moor,
By the fierce driving blast to the earth is blown down:
So the lone houseless wand'rer, unheeded and poor,
May fall unprotected, unpitied, unknown.

See! o'er the grey steep, down the deep craggy glen,
Pours the brown foaming torrent, swell'd big with the rain:
It roars through the caves of its dark wizard den,
Then, headlong, impetuous it sweeps through the plain.

Now the dark heavy clouds have unbosom'd their stores,
And far to the westward the welkin is blue,
The sullen winds hiss as they die on the moors,
And the sun faintly shines on yon bleak mountain's brow.