Even thou who mournst the daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom!
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.--Robert Burns
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus.
His locked, lettered, braw brass collar, Shewed him the gentleman and scholar. Robert B
We labour soon, we labour late, / To feed the titled knave, man; / And a' the comfort we're to get / Is that ayont the grave, man.