by Arthur Stringer
Still wid his wee ould bosom warm,
Och, mad as hare or hatter,
He pipes and jigs through iv'ry storm —
So what can Winter matter?
Faith, laugh and leave your tears behind,
And sing thro' toil and throuble, —
There's still a kind of bein' blind,
That's more than seein' double!
Last updated January 14, 2019