Than frae this noddin’ object I can gain.
Beauty is a’e thing, but it tines anither
(For, fegs, they never can be f’und thegither),
And ’twixt the twa it’s no’ for me to swither.
As frae the grun’ sae thocht frae men springs oot,
A ferlie that tells little o’ its source, I doot,
And has nae vera fundamental root.
And cauld agen my hert are laid
The words o’ Plato when he said,
“God o’ geometry is made.”