To Make Three Guineas Do

Dweller In Yon Dungeon Dark, Hangman Of Creation, Mark! Who In Widow Weeds Appears, Laden With Unhonoured Years, Noosing With Care A Bursting Purse, Baited With Many A Deadly Curse?

Flow Gently, Sweet Afton, Among Thy Green Braes, Flow Gently, I'll Sing Thee A Song In Thy Praise.

Their Sighing, Canting, Grace-proud Faces, Their Three-mile Prayers, And Half-mile Graces.

His Locked, Lettered, Braw Brass Collar, Shewed Him The Gentleman And Scholar.

Painters And Poets Have Liberty To Lie.