This world alone is not enough.I need someone to make my latté old and classy over the time;Just as the wine does as it ages.I marvellously pout, exhaling air on the brim, to make my coffee lukewarm.Stealing glimpse of those eyes.Carefully those fingers wipe the cream cornering on my lips.The clock ticks, with those sips.Residues of coffee beans lie on the bed of the cup, as I reach to the Epilogue uninterrupted.
Your cologne still lingers in the room.Your suit cuffs are still in the drawer,as I open it , tear makes it way.These walls murmur in my ears,in your hoarse voice.Your diary, describing me in every way,as rose fossils hurriedly fall down.I was in love with a writer,who made me immortalon his pages by witheringaway himself.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.Many a banner spread,Flutters above your head,Many a crest that is famous in story.Mount and make ready then,Sons of the mountain glen,Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Youth of delight! come hitherAnd see the opening morn,Image of Truth new-born.Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,Dark disputes and artful teazing.Folly is an endless maze;Tangled roots perplex her ways;How many have fallen there!They stumble all night over bones of the dead;And feel--they know not what but care;And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze,A leaping clay hill lost among the trees,The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrushCaught in a drowsy hushAnd stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song.Ah little road, brown as my race is brown,Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride,Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down.Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry!