Last night I regaled friends of Scandinavian and German descent by singing eleven peerless songs by Burns. Frost, Burns and Hardy are my three favorite lyric poets in English, and dammit, Mac, in the words of the judge at Alfie Packer's trial: "They was on'y three dimmiecrats in Summit County, and you done et two of 'em!"
The Pasture Spring is a children's poem, and a pretty good one. I once saw a foal of four hours birthing step out from behind his momma into a thirty knot south wind and get knocked flat, and I always remember that when I read the "totters" line. Say it aloud, earless one--the its and esses come so thick it's like licking wool, and that alone is worth the price of admission to this little bagatelle.
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