For A. Maker.

Gin I wis ivy I wid twine
Yon lang, lean limbs, unyieldin's stare,
Sear laggard thocht — a kinnelt vine,
Wi' leaves o' langin fill his een.

He'd learn tae loe me, quick eneuch,
Gin he war bane, an I war bluid
A flytin tide, I'd draw awa,
Leavin him pale, as I am reid.

I am the serpent in the stoor,
Tho lower than the dust I lie,
I haud the knowledge o' delicht,
Oh wha daur pass me by?
A thoosan-fauld they crush my heid
I hissin rise an multiply.