Whan on my muse the gate I tak,
An' see her gleed e'e raxin' back
To keek ahint her; -
To me, the brig o' Heev'n gangs black
As blackest winter.

"LORDSAKE! WE'RE AFF," thinks I, "BUT WHAUR?
ON WHAT ABHORRED AN' WHINNY SCAUR,
OR WHAMMLED IN WHAT SEA O' GLAUR,
WILL SHE DESERT ME?
AN' WILL SHE JUST DISGRACE? OR WAUR -
WILL SHE NO HURT ME?"

Kittle the quaere! But at least
The day I've backed the fashious beast,
While she, wi' mony a spang an' reist,
Flang heels ower bonnet;
An' a' triumphant - for your feast,
Hae! there's your sonnet!


XI - EMBRO HIE KIRK


The Lord Himsel' in former days
Waled out the proper tunes for praise
An' named the proper kind o' claes
For folk to preach in:
Preceese and in the chief o' ways
Important teachin'.