To all you babes at Branxholm Park, This book I dedicate; A book for winter evenings dark, Too dark to ride or skate. I made it up out of my pate, And wasted midnight oil, Interpreting each cut and plate-- The works of DICKY DOYLE! When weary winter comes, and hark! The Teviot roars in “spate”; When half you think you’ll need the Ark, The flood’s so fierce and great; Think of the Prince and of his mate, Their triumph and their toil, And mark them drawn in all their state-- The works of DICKY DOYLE!…
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