Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!
And heed nae mair the foolish cries that beg
You slice nae mair to aff or pu’ to leg,
You skitin’ duffer that gar’s a’body fleg,
—What tho’ you ding the haill warld oot o’ joint
Wi’ a skier to cover-point!
Yank oot your orra boughs, my hert!
There was a danger—and it’s weel I see’t—
Had brocht ye like Mallarmé to defeat:—
“Mon doute, amas de nuit ancienne s’achève