There’s something in the fickle licht that gi’es
A different life to’t and an unco poo’er.
[3]“Rootit on gressless peaks, whaur its erect
And jaggy leafs, austerely cauld and dumb,
Haud the slow scaly serpent in respect,
The Gothic thistle, whaur the insect’s hum
Soon’s fer aff, lifts abune the rock it scorns
Its rigid virtue for the Heavens to see.
The too’ering boulders gaird it. And the bee
Mak’s honey frae the roses on its thorns.”