The Honest Man, Though E'er Sae Poor,

That Hour O' Night's Black Arch The Keystane.

Ilk Cowslip Cup Shall Kep A Tear.

Dweller In Yon Dungeon Dark, Hangman Of Creation, Mark! Who In Widow Weeds Appears, Laden With Unhonoured Years, Noosing With Care A Bursting Purse, Baited With Many A Deadly Curse?

I Love Drinking Now And Then. It Defecates The Standing Pool Of Thought. A Man Perpetually In The Paroxysm And Fears Of Inebriety Is Like A Half-drowned Stupid Wretch Condemned To Labor Unceasingly In Water; But A Now-and-then Tribute To Bacchus Is Like The Cold Bath, Bracing And Invigorating.

If There's Another World, He Lives In Bliss; If There Is None, He Made The Best Of This.