And the thing on yird was never made,
That could ha’e gart us sunder.
But the way o’ Heaven’s aboon a’ ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to sen’—
It’s comfort, though, to weary men,
That the warst o’ this warld’s waes maun en’.
“There’s mony things that come and gae,
Just kent, and just forgotten;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten,