At Daith lets slip the infinite soul;
And syne it’s like a sunrise tint
In grey o’ day, or love and life,
That in a cloody blash o’ sperm
Undae the warld to big’t again,
Or like a pickled foetus that
Nae man feels ocht in common wi’
—But micht as easily ha’ been!
Or like a corpse a soul set free
Scunners to think it tenanted