Burns’ Plaid.

OFT owre the hills and far awa’,
When glint tho wintra e’en star,
The poet-pleughman held afa’,
Wrapt in his plaid,
To meet some frien’, or bonnie lass,
Or by the chimla-lug to pass
The livelong e’en aboot the glass,
Graced by his plaid.

Oft by the braes o’ “bonnie Doon,”
Or winding Nith beneath the moon,
His loe-inspired lays he’d croon,
Safe in his plaid.
Nae doubt his lovely Highland maid,
When angry gusts Bart her afraid,
He warmly rowed within his plaid,
His bonnie plaid!