The silly horrors o’ oor fates.
Fier—comme un Ecossais!
There’s muckle in the root
That never can wun oot,
Or’t owre what is ’ud sweep
Like a thunderstorm owre sheep.
But shadows whiles upcreep,
And heavy tremors leap ...
C’wa’, Daith, again, sned Life’s vain shoot,
And your ain coonsel keep!...