"Very well," said the doctor, "if you can stand it I will sing."
Long before he had finished his audience was uneasy.
There was a painful silence as the doctor sat down, broken at length by the voice of a braw Scot at the end of the table.
"Mon," he exclaimed, "your singin's no up to much, but your veracity's just awful. You're richt aboot that brick."
She smiles, my darling smiles, and all
The world is filled with light;
She laughs—'tis like the bird's sweet call,
In meadows fair and bright.
She weeps—the world is cold and gray,