“My nobler instincts sall nae mair
This contrair shape be gi’en.
I sall nae mair consent to live
A life no’ fit to be seen.”
Sae ran the thocht that hid ahint
The thistle’s ugsome guise,
Till a’ at aince a rose loupt out
—I watched it wi’ surprise.
A rose loupt oot and grew, until
It was ten times the size