What gin it’s your ain vomit that you swill
And frae Life’s gantin’ and unfaddomed grave?
I doot I’m geylies mixed, like Life itsel’,
But I was never ane that thocht to pit
An ocean in a mutchkin. As the haill’s
Mair than the pairt sae I than reason yet.
I dinna haud the warld’s end in my heid
As maist folk think they dae; nor filter truth
In fishy gills through which its tides may poor
For ony animalculæ forsooth.