Cats are a mysterious kind of folk.
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.
Jock, when ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye 're sleeping.
Hurry no man's cattle; you may come to own a donkey yourself
Spangling the wave with lights as vain As pleasures in the vale of pain, That dazzle as they fade.
Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er.