Secunt Birth

Weel-faird as a fresco bi Raphael,
“Madonna and Son”
A bonnielike basket, bucklet thegither,
A buckie, sookin the pap o the boun'less sea
Man-babe, an its mither.
She wis his meal an ale,
His bield, in onchancy widder
Sic weirds she wad wyve on her wab
A tapestry blythe fur her bairn, o vouchsafed pleisur!

The littlin becam a loon,
Sweir tae daunder his lane, shuggily aroon the foun
His powe wis a corbie's wing, happin an opal broo.
Warm wis the neb o him, noozlin,
Pleisunt his moo, nyum-nyumin,
Lichtsome his threep, curmurrin,
The smaaest fleg caad him rinnin,
Up tae her cradlin bosie;
The guff o him, kent an cosie.
 
His warld grew braider
He turned on her, traitor,
The knap o his tyrant fit
Gart the waas o Jericho cowp
Her regency doon on its dowp.
He strode frae the nursery, a Titan
In a rive o thunner an storm,
His selfhood wis born.
Ilkie knell o rebellion,
Scrattit her matriarch hairt —
Wylin her princelin awa,
In that secunt birth,
They war finally,
Torn apairt.

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