There's not a sportsman on the hills, the rain is on the pane,
I only wish to sleep until the sunshine comes again.
I wish the mist would lift, and the light break out once more,
I long to kill a grouse, Willie, ere the Twelfth of August's o'er.
V.
I have been stiff and lazy, but I'll up and dress me now,
You'll fetch my breakfast, Willie, and my plaid before I go.
Nay, nay, you must not brush so hard, my very teeth you jolt,
You should not rub me down, Willie, as if I were a colt.
VI.