Tim'rous Beastie in Winter's Grip

The frost lay deep on the barley stone. And the wind it moaned o'er

the moor. I set my plough through the autumn lane. And broke you

from your tiny door. You ran, wee heart, with a frightened

cry. Through the stubble brown and bare. Oh, tim'rous beastie,

I could not spare. The home you'd built with care. Oh,

the best laid plans of beast and man. Go oft astray in time.

Your nest lies bare in the cold, cold air. While I warm

by fires clime. Forgive the hand that tore your land. 'Twas no