And syne the licht,
That queer extension o’ the dark,
That seems a separate and a different thing,
And, seemin’ sae, has lang confused the dark,
And set it at cross-purposes wi’ itsel’.
O little Life
In which Daith guises and deceives itsel’,
Joy that mak’s Grief a Janus,
Hope that is Despair’s fause-face,
And Guid and Ill that are the same,