My Foot Is On My Native Heath,

Dear To Me Is My Bonnie White Steed; Oft Has He Helped Me At Pinch Of Need.

O Woman! In Our Hours Of Ease Uncertain, Coy, And Hard To Please, And Variable As The Shade By The Light Quivering Aspen Made; When Pain And Anguish Wring The Brow, A Ministering Angel Thou!

I Will Tear This Folly From My Heart, Though Every Fibre Bleed As I Rend It Away!

Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

Spur Not An Unbroken Horse; Put Not Your Plowshare Too Deep Into New Land.