Has made an eel-ark o’ the lift
Whaur elvers like skirl-in-the-pan sizzle,
Like a thunder-plump on the sunlicht,
Or the slounge o’ daith on my dreams,
Or as to a fair forfochen man
A breedin’ wife’s beddiness seems,
Saragossa Sea, St Vitus’ Dance,
A cafard in a brain’s despite,
Or lunacy that thinks a’ else
Is loony—and is dootless richt!...