Mebbe there’s limits we can ne’er get past,
Mebbe we’re sentrices that at the last
Are flung aside, and no’ the pillars and props
O’ Heaven foraye as in oor hopes.
Oor growth at least nae steady progress shows,
Genius in mankind like an antrin rose
Abune a jungly waste o’ effort grows,
But to Man’s purpose it mak’s little odds,
And seems irrelevant to God’s....
Eneuch? Then here you are. Here’s the haill story.