Nae doot they’re sober, as a Scot ne’er was,
Each tethered to a punctual-snorin’ missus,
Whilst I, puir fule, owre continents unkent
And wine-dark oceans waunder like Ulysses....
[5]The Mune sits on my bed the nicht unsocht,
And mak’s my soul obedient to her will;
And in the dumb-deid, still as dreams are still,
Her pupils narrow to bricht threids that thrill
Aboot the sensuous windin’s o’ her thocht.
But ilka windin’ has its coonter-pairt