But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.

Some wee short hour ayont the twal.

The wide world is all before us - but a world without a friend.

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn.

Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! O Death, the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best!

Painters and poets have liberty to lie.