From all the Gog-like jostle of great men.
Still with thy small crow pen
Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn—
Still Scottish story daintily adorn,
Be still a shade—and when this age is fled,
When we poor sons and daughters of reality
Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead,
And Time destroys our mottoes of morality,
The lithographic hand of Old Mortality
Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone,