for J.D. Gomersall

An ill-yokt pair is merriment an' dule
Ane's trottin trig, the tither rugs the load
Heid-doon, slaw fittit, foonert in the glaur
The tichtenin bit, gyan deep as ony goad.

Ye grip a rose fu' lang, the stem'll brak
Its perfume, be a grave-guff ower the lan'
A keekin-glaiss, wi waesome picturs in't
Dissolves an shatters; stane turned intil san'.

A mirey, dubby, tapsalteerie burn
Teirin alang a bank o' reidest thorn
Nae tinklin pull, o' tranquil blessed calm
Twar better sic a thing war niver born!

Oh, I hae bin a rose o nae perfume
Oh, I hae bin a stane dinged doon tae san'
Oh, I hae bin a burn o bitter soun
A withered laurel, cut apairt frae man.

Oh waur, full waur, nur only jyle horizon
Invidious, the chynes we forge wirsel!
I wis a prisoner o my ain devisin
Biggin a boundary, I vrocht a cell.

Yet ivery teenie bird may raxx its wing
Kennin the solace o a cloudless sky
There is a sea that welcomes ilkie wave
Yeh, even sic a brukken ane as I.