At my age flowers scare me.

Nice to be here? At my age it's nice to be anywhere.

If you live to the age of a hundred you have it made because very few people die past the age of a hundred.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.

Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, The milkwhite is the slae.

Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see! Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bowers! Ye roses on your thorny tree The first o' flow'rs.