The mune, till it’s juist bricht enough—
O wull I never lowse a licht
I canna dowse again in spite,
Or dull to haud within my sicht?
The thistle canna vanish quite.
Inside a’ licht its shape maun glint,
A spirit wi’ a skeleton in’t
The world, the flesh, ’ll bide in us
As in the fire the unburnt buss,
Or as frae sire to son we gang