It’s cauld – it’s dark – through the dread waste
Yon starn, sae red, and sma,
Presses its weak, encumberd, beam,
To perish in the sna’.
Och! Och! it’s mirk – the furious storm,
Howls round the hill sae high;
And black, and awfu’, on the earth,
Sits down the laiden sky.
[Robert Couper, 1804]