Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!
Painters and poets have liberty to lie.
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord alright!
The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.
Suspense is worse than disappointment.