And interferes wi’ perfect liberty—
These feed this Frankenstein that nae man can escape.
For ilka thing a man can be or think or dae
Aye leaves a million mair unbeen, unthocht, undune,
Till his puir warped performance is,
To a’ that micht ha’ been, a thistle to the mune.
It is Mortality itsel’—the mortal coil,
Mockin’ Perfection, Man afore the Throne o’ God.
He yet has bigged himsel’, Man torn in twa
And glorious in the lift and grisly on the sod!...