The nervous thistle’s shiverin’ like
A horse’s skin aneth a cleg,
Or Northern Lichts or lustres o’
A soul that Daith has fastened on,
Or mornin’ efter the nicht afore.
Shudderin’ thistle, gi’e owre, gi’e owre....
Grey sand is churnin’ in my lugs
The munelicht flets, and gantin’ there
The grave o’ a’ mankind’s laid bare
—On Hell itsel’ the drawback rugs!