And feel it grow by slow degrees
Until it rends your flesh apairt,
And turn, and see your fellow-men
In similar case but sufferin’ less
Thro’ bein’ mair wudden frae the stert!...
I’m fu’ o’ a stickit God.
That’s what’s the maitter wi’ me,
Jean has stuck sic a fork in the wa’
That I row in agonie.
Mary never let dab.