Suspense Is Worst Than Disappointment.

See Social-life And Glee Sit Down, All Joyous And Unthinking, Till, Quite Transmugrified, They're Grown Debauchery And Drinking

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

Not The Bee Upon The Blossom, In The Pride O' Sunny Noon; Not The Little Sporting Fairy, All Beneath The Simmer Moon; Not The Poet, In The Moment Fancy Lightens In His E'e, Kens The Pleasure, Feels The Rapture, That Thy Presence Gi'es To Me.

Some Books Are Lies Frae End To End.

My Dear, My Native Soil! For Whom My Warmest Wish To Heav'n Is Sent, Long May Thy Hardy Sons Of Rustic Toil Be Blest With Health, And Peace, And Sweet Content!