Or is this Heaven, this yalla licht,
And I the aft’rins o’ the Earth,
Or sic’s in this wanchancy time
May weel fin’ sudden birth?
The roots that wi’ the worms compete
Hauf-publish me upon the air.
The struggle that divides me still
Is seen fu’ plainly there.
The thistle’s shank scarce holes the grun’,
My grave’ll spare nae mair I doot.