Oh, Stay, Sweet Warbling Woodlark, Stay, Nor

Now Nature Hangs Her Mantle Green On Every Blooming Tree, And Spreads Her Sheets O'daisies White Out O'er The Grassy Lea.

Just Now I've Taen The Fit O' Rhyme / My Barmie Noddle's Working Prime.

God Knows, I'm Not The Thing I Should Be, Nor Am I Even The Thing I Could Be, But Twenty Times I Rather Would Be An Atheist Clean, Than Under Gospel Colours Hid Be Just For A Screen.

Good Lord, What Is Man! For As Simple He Looks, Do But Try To Develop His Books And His Crooks, With His Depths And His Shallows, His Good And His Evil, All In All, He's A Problem Must Puzzle The Devil.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot, And Never Brought To Min?