She wunna fush!

She wunna fush at ony gait,
She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate;
Maist like yer kimmer when ye're late
Frae Girvan Fair!
Forbye to speer for leave I'm blate
For fushin' there!

O Louis, you that writes in Scots,
Ye're far awa' frae stirks and stots,
Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots,
An unco way!
MY mirth's like thorns aneth the pots
In Ballantrae!



SONG BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF--RHYMES MADE IN A DREAM



I know not what my secret is,
I know but it is mine;
I know to dwell with it were bliss,
To die for it divine.
I cannot yield it in a kiss,
Nor breathe it in a sigh.
I know that I have lived for this;
For this, my love, I die.