When Chill November's Surly Blast

The Poor Inhabitant Below Was Quick To Learn And Wise To Know And Keenly Felt The Friendly Glow And Softer Flame; But Thoughtless Follies Laid Him Low, And Stain'd His Name!

Gars Auld Claes Look Amaist As Weel's The New.

But Mousie, Thou Art No Thy Lane In Proving Foresight May Be Vain The Best-laid Schemes O' Mice An' Men Gang Aft Agley An' Lea'e Us Nought But Grief An' Pain For Promis'd Joy!

And Wild-scatter'd Cowslips Bedeck The Green Dale.

I Love Drinking Now And Then. It Defecates The Standing Pool Of Thought. A Man Perpetually In The Paroxysm And Fears Of Inebriety Is Like A Half-drowned Stupid Wretch Condemned To Labor Unceasingly In Water; But A Now-and-then Tribute To Bacchus Is Like The Cold Bath, Bracing And Invigorating.