Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creeping alang, Wi' a cog o' gude swats and an auld Scotish sang.
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
