Yet while it ran to wud and thorns,
The feckless growth was seekin’
Some airt to cheenge its life until
A’ in a rose was beekin’.
“Is there nae way in which my life
Can mair to flooerin’ come,
And bring its waste on shank and jags
Doon to a minimum?
“It’s hard to struggle as I maun
For scrunts o’ blooms like mine,