The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border.
His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar.
Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn!
The trout in yonder wimpling burn - That glides, a silver dart, - And, safe beneath the shady thorn, - Defies the anglers art.
Life is but a day at most.
I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!