The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!

All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime An' done nae-thing, But stringing blethers up to rhyme For fools to sing.

Gin a body meet a body Comin thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!

The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley; And leave us naught but grief and pain For promised joy.

When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare.