Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me.

The trout in yonder wimpling burn - That glides, a silver dart, - And, safe beneath the shady thorn, - Defies the anglers art.

I want someone to laugh with me, someone to be grave with me, someone to please me and help my discrimination with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and penetration.

To step aside is human.