The Entail; or, The Lairds of Grippy
To me--noo sax-and-seventy year auld--the monthly moon's but as a glaik on the wall--the spring but as a butterflee that taks the wings o' the morning--and a' the summer only as the tinkling o' a cymbal--as for hairst and winter, they're the shadows o' death; the whilk is an admonishment, that I should not be overly gair anent the world, but mak mysel and others happy, by taking the san'tified use o' what I hae--so, Geordie and sirs, ye'll fill another glass.'