Some books are lies frae end to end

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.

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

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!

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

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!

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