Barrin’ this clytach that they’ve never brocht
To onything but sic a Blottie O
As some bairn’s copybook micht show,
A spook o’ soond that frae the unkent grave
In which oor nation lies loups up to wave
Sic leprous chuns as tatties have
That cellar-boond send spindles gropin’
Towards ony hole that’s open,
Like waesome fingers in the dark that think
They still may widen the ane and only chink