Some Wee Short Hour Ayont The Twal.

Now Nature Hangs Her Mantle Green On Every Blooming Tree, And Spreads Her Sheets O'daisies White Out O'er The Grassy Lea.

Now A' Is Done That Men Can Do, And A' Is Done In Vain.

Or Like The Snow Falls In The River, A Moment White-then Melts For Ever . . .

Some Books Are Lies Frae End To End.

Flow Gently, Sweet Afton, Among Thy Green Braes, Flow Gently, I'll Sing Thee A Song In Thy Praise.