Wakefield

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  “In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story, told as truth, of a man—let us call him Wakefield—who absented himself for a long time from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very uncommon, nor, without a proper distinction of circumstances, to be condemned either as naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance on record of marital delinquency, and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The man, under pretense of going a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upward of twenty years. During that period he beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his matrimonial felicity—when his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled...

Welcome, November

 When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 

Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r, 
         Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 
         Or whirling drift: 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths upchoked, 
         Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 
         Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 
         O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, 
         Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
         What comes o' thee? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing 
         An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd 
         My heart forgets, 
While pityless the tempest wild 
         Sore on you beats. 

(“A Winter Night” by Robert Burns)

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