Роберт Бёрнс, "Конец лета".

Now westlin winds, and slaughtering guns
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather: 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary Farmer; 
The moon shines bright, as I rove at night,
To muse upon my Charmer.

The Pairtrick lo'es the [bad word] #39; fells;
The Plover lo'es the mountains; 
The Woodcock haunts the lanely dells;
The soaring Hern the fountains: 
Thro' lofty groves, the Cushat roves,
The path o' man to shun it; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the [bad word] 
The spreading thorn the Linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find.
The savage and the tender; 
Some social join, and [bad word] 
Some solitary wander: 
Avaunt, away! the [bad word] sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion; 
The Sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning 's clear,
Thick flies the skimming Swallow; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:  [bad word] let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms o' Nature; 
 [bad word] corn, the [bad word] thorn,
And ilka happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
While the silent moon shines clearly; 
I'll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I lo'e thee dearly: 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the Farmer, 
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely Charmer!