Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/88

64 Dear Heaven, with such a rancid life,

Were it not better far to die?

Yet still, about the human pale,

I love to scamper, love to race,

To swing by my irreverent tail

All over the most holy place;

And when at length, some golden day,

The unfailing sportsman, aiming at,

Shall bag, me—all the world shall say:

Thank God, and there's an end of that!