Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick

To greet the callous public.

Writ, I ween, ’twas not my wish

In lean unlovely English.

Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick To greet the callous public. Writ, I ween, ’twas not my wish In lean unlovely English.

―The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.

We feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green twinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.