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24 I might tell how, but the day before,

stood at his cottage door,

Looking down the village street,

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,

He heard the low of his gathered kine,

And felt their breath with incense sweet;

Or, I might say, when the sunset burned

The old farm gable, he thought it turned

The milk that fell in a babbling flood

Into the milk-pail, red as blood!

Or, how he fancied the hum of bees

Were bullets buzzing among the trees.

But all such fanciful thoughts as these

Were strange to a practical man like Burns,

Who minded only his own concerns,

Troubled no more by fancies fine

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine—

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,

Slow to argue, but quick to act.

That was the reason, as some folk say,

He fought so well on that terrible day.