Or kittle earthquakes up
Wi’ an amusin’ root,
While, kilted in your tippet,
They still can mak’ their rippit....
And let me pit in guid set terms
My quarrel wi’ th’owre sonsy rose,
That roond aboot its devotees
A fair fat cast o’ aureole throws
That blinds them, in its mirlygoes,
To the necessity o’ foes.