Or like a sea that peacefu’ fa’s again
When frae its deeps an octopus is fished.
I canna feel it has to dae wi’ me
Mair than a composite diagram o’
Cross-sections o’ my forbears’ organs
—And mine—’ud bring a kind o’ freen’ly glow.
And yet like bindweed through my clay it’s run,
And a’ my folks’—it’s queer to see’t unroll.
My ain soul looks me in the face, as ’twere,
And mair than my ain soul—my nation’s soul!