So bent on self-sanctifying,-- That she never thought of trying To save her poor husband as well.

The other wives would ask, 'What's Charlie doing? How is he? I used to say, 'Charlie's asleep.' He was always so calm.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonny wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart.

And the voice of men shall call, "He is fallen like us all, Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand:" And thine epitaph shall be-- "He was wretched ev'n as we;" And thy tomb may be unhonoured in the land.

Pansies? You praise the ones that grow today Here in the garden; had you seen the place When Sutherland was living! Here they grew, From blue to deeper blue, in midst of each A golden dazzle like a glimmering star, Each broader, bigger than a silver crown; While here the weaver sat, his labor done, Watching his azure pets and rearing them, Until they seem'd to know his step and touch, And stir beneath his smile like living things: The very sunshine loved them, and would lie Here happy, coming early, lingering late, Because they were so fair.