Gin the clouds war teemin graves,
Scalin the horde o' humanity,
Back, till the hinmaist generation,
Aa their pith an pooer,
Doon in a steep rain,
'Twid be a short shower, tummlin.

Ye may rin tae the fower airts,
The hale o' a puny grit in a strainin sinew,
Peched, b' the sweir endeavour.
There's aye a new horizon, foriver
A new begeck, a second hummlin.

New growth comes faist ahin a burnin heath,
The cruel years ootrin ye,
A weary stag, gralloched
B' snappin teeth.
In the braidth o' Creation
Anely the hills staun siccar,
Sure o' their station.
The yetts o' wirdly ambition's
A prood castle, a circlin craw,
The heicht o' a nettle,
Wavin its firey banner
Ben a forgotten ha'.
The past, the future's
Watter,
Screived on a crummlin waa.