Life’s connached shapes too’er up in croons o’ glory,
Perpetuatin’, natheless, in their gory
Colour the endless sacrifice and pain
That to their makin’s gane.
The roses like the saints in Heaven treid
Triumphant owre the agonies o’ their breed,
And wag fu’ mony a celestial heid
Abune the thorter-ills o’ leaf and prick
In which they ken the feck maun stick.
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!