A Women Can Make An

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.

Such Is The Fate Of Simple Bard, On Life's Rough Ocean Luckless Starr'd

O Life! Thou Art A Galling Load, Along A Rough, A Weary Road, To Wretches Such As I!

When Chill November's Surly Blast Made Fields And Forests Bare.

Some Wee Short Hour Ayont The Twal.