“Let God forsake me noo and no’
Staund connoisseur-like tae!”...
The language that but sparely flooers
And maistly gangs to weed;
The thocht o’ Christ and Calvary
Aye liddenin’ in my heid;
And a’ the dour provincial thocht
That merks the Scottish breed
—These are the thistle’s characters,
To argie there’s nae need.