The thocht o’ every thwart owrecome
Are in my ears and een and brain,
In whom the bluid is spilt in stour,
In whom a’ licht in darkness fails,
In whom the mystery o’ life
Is to a wretched weed bewrayed.
But let my soul increase in me,
God dwarfed to enter my puir thocht
Expand to his true size again,
And protoplasm’s look befit