And pride in its success, as weel I may,
In growin’ exactly as its instinct says,
Save in sae fer as thwarts o’ weather or grun’
Or man or ither foes ha’e’ts aims perchance fordone.
But I can form nae notion o’ the spirit
That gars it tak’ the difficult shape it does,
Nor judge the merit yet or the demerit
O’ this detail or that sae fer as it goes
T’ advance the cause that gied it sic a guise
As maun ha’e pleased its Maker wi’ a gey surprise.