Go Fetch To Me A Pint O'

I Waive The Quantum O' The Sin, The Hazard Of Concealing; But, Och! It Hardens A' Within, And Petrifies The Feeling!

God Knows, I'm No The Thing I Should Be, Nor Am I Even The Thing I Could Be.

Pleasures Are Like Poppies Spread: You Seize The Flow'r, Its Bloom Is Shed.

At Length His Lonely Cot Appears In View, Beneath The Shelter Of An Aged Tree; Th' Expectant Wee-things, Toddling, Stacher Thro' To Meet Their Dad, Wi' Flichterin Noise An' Glee.

The Lightly-jumping, Glowrin' Trouts, That Thro' My Waters Play.