THREE Scottish literary “Rabbies,” Robert Fergusson, Robert Burns, and Robert Louis Stevenson, will be celebrated tomorrow in Edinburgh. The public is welcome at the ceremony at the grave of Fergusson in the Canongate Kirk-yard (10.50 for 11am). There will be brief speeches about all three. Here are the opening verses of The Daft Days by Fergusson (1750-1774).

THE DAFT DAYS

Now mirk December’s dowie face

Glow’rs owre the rigs wi’ sour grimace,

While, thro’ his minimum o’ space

The bleer-e’ed sun,

Wi’ blinkin’ light and stealin’ pace

His race doth run.

Frae naked groves nae birdie sings;

To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings;

The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings

Frae Borean cave;

And dwynin’ Nature droops her wings,

Wi’ visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean

Frae snawy hill or barren plain,

Whan Winter, ’midst his nippin’ train,

Wi’ frozen spear,

Sends drift owre a’ his bleak domain,

And guides the weir.

weir=war