If summer ended before spring began
With winter once again upon its tail;
If evenings ceased to consequently trail
The final moments in which sunshine ran;
If winds would not inevitably fan
The deep-sea trades, and lacklusterly fail
To push ahead the cry "A sail, a sail,"
If Scotsmen should forget their native clan
And league with Englishmen against their kin;
If all of this should pass, and men should be
Discouraged and distempered by the change,
Still I despair that it would rearrange
The painful future that envelops me:
I cannot do what you will not begin.
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