To ha’e anither like’t the morn,
Or let a generation pass
That ane nae better may succeed,
Or wi’ a’ Time’s machinery
Keep naething new aneth the sun,
Or change things oot o’ kennin’ that
They may be a’ the mair the same?
The thistle in the wund dissolves
In lichtnin’s as shook foil gi’es way
In sudden splendours, or the flesh