The lassie we love and the friend we can trust,
And a bumper to wash from our spirits the rust;
Then let gear-scraping carls make o' life catch-the-plack,
And strod to the de'il wi' the trash on their back.
This life is a garden where all choose their posies:
In the spring of our youth let us gather the roses;
For brief is their bloom like the dews of the morn,
If you seek them too late you will find but a thorn.
If Care steal amang us he's narrowly watch'd,
By a smile or a squeeze of the hand he's dispatch'd;