ODE TO SPRINGBy Robert BurnsWhen maukin bucks, at early fucks,In dewy grass are seen, Sir,And birds, on boughs, take off their mowsAmong the leaves sae green, Sir;Latona’s sun looks liquorish onDame Nature’s grand impetusTill his prick go rise, then westward fliesTo roger Madame Thetis.

Yon wandering rill that marks the hill,And glances o’er the brae, Sir,Slides by a bower where many a flowerSheds fragrance on the day, Sir;There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay,To love they thought no crime, Sir:The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang,While Damons arse beat time, Sir.

First with the thrush, his thrust and pushHad compass large and long, Sir;The blackbird next, his tuneful text,Was bolder, clear and strong, Sir:The linnet’s lay then came in play,And the lark that soar’d aboon, Sir;Till Damon fierce, mistimed his arse,And fucked quite out of tune, Sir.

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