Sad, Scottish, and horrible

As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'

'-In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.


'His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady 's ta'en anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.


'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

'Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane:
O'er his banes, when they are bare
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'

17th Century Anon

Let's face it, I've had better days.

They don't make 'em like that anymore

If I'm going to be Scottish and poetic, I might as well be MacGonagal:

'On yonder hill there stands a coo,
If it's nae there it's awa' noo.'