Grant me, Po’ers, jist ane simmer mair
an ane maumie autumn,
that ma hairt, ripe wi sweet sang
’s no sae swier for tae dee. A saul
in life denied divine richt wil
waunner Orcis disjaiskit; but syne
ah win whit’s halie an maist
dear tae ma art – ane perfit poem
I’ll welcome the cauld, the quate mirk!
For though I maun lee ma herp
an gang doon wantin sang, Ah’d hae lived,
aince, lik the gods and aince is eneuch.
