Who O'er The Herd Would Wish To

Good Even, Good Fair Moon, Good Even To Thee. I Prithee, Dear Moon, Now Show To Me The Form And The Features, The Speech And Degree, Of The Man That True Lover Of Mine Shall Be.

'tis An Old Tale, And Often Told; But Did My Fate And Wish Agree, Ne'er Had Been Read, In Story Old, Of Maiden True Betray'd For Gold, That Loved, Or Was Avenged, Like Me!

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; 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.

A Finnan Haddock Has A Relish Of A Peculiar And Delicate Flavour, Inimitable On Any Other Coast Than That Of Aberdeenshire. Some Of Our Edinburgh Philosophers Tried To Produce Their Equal In Vain. I Was One Of A Party At Dinner Where The Philosophical Haddocks Were Placed In Competition With The Genuine Finnan Fish. These Were Served Round Without Distinguishing Whence They Came; But Only One Gentleman Out Of Twelve Present Espoused The Cause Of Philosophy.

Ridicule Often Checks What Is Absurd, And Fully As Often Smothers That Which Is Noble.