And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) rest
Your better art o' hidin'.
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop, Gives
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop!
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,