Bynightitwasclearer，andMaybolemorevisiblethanduringtheday。Cloudscoursedovertheskyingreatmasses；thefullmoonbattledtheotherway，andlitupthesnowwithgleamsofflyingsilver；thetowncamedownthehillinacascadeofbrowngables，bestriddenbysmoothwhiteroofs，andsprangledhereandtherewithlightedwindows。Ateitherendthesnowstoodhighupinthedarkness，onthepeakoftheTolboothandamongthechimneysoftheCastle。Asthemoonflashedabull’s—eyeglitteracrossthetownbetweentheracingclouds，thewhiteroofsleapedintoreliefoverthegablesandthechimney—stacks，andtheirshadowsoverthewhiteroofs。Inthetownitselfthelitfaceoftheclockpeereddownthestreet；anhourwashammeredoutonMr。Geli’sbell，andfrombehindtheredcurtainsofapublic—housesomeonetrolledout—acompatriotofBurns，again！—’Thesauttearblin’smye’e。’
Nextmorningtherewassunandaflappingwind。FromthestreetcornersofMayboleIcouldcatchbreezyglimpsesofgreenfields。
Theroadunderfootwaswetandheavy—partice，partsnow，partwater，andanyoneImetgreetedme，bywayofsalutation，with’A
finethowe’（thaw）。Mywaylayamongratherbleakbills，andpastbleakpondsanddilapidatedcastlesandmonasteries，totheHighland—
lookingvillageofKirkoswald。Ithaslittleclaimtonotice，savethatBurnscametheretostudysurveyinginthesummerof1777，andtherealso，inthekirkyard，theoriginalofTamo’Shantersleepshislastsleep。Itisworthnoticing，however，thatthiswasthefirstplaceIthought’Highland—looking。’OverthebillfromKirkoswaldafarm—roadleadstothecoast。AsIcamedownaboveTurnberry，theseaviewwasindeedstrangelydifferentfromthedaybefore。Thecoldfogswereallblownaway；andtherewasAilsaCraig，likearefraction，magnifiedanddeformed，oftheBassRock；