My bairns walk blythely on the open muir —
Their path is straucht an sunny. Mine is blae.
They min rejoicin; I maun hirple, sweir,
I fear the howes o derksome Destiny.

She sits an spins the thrums an threids o life —
I saw her likeness aince — the bairns saw nocht.
I saw her twice — a drumly carlin wife.
I spukk wi Fate — a fykey favour socht.

“The heichest hope I haud, I'll pledge tae thee
This beatin hairt, an ilkie thocht sae sweet
If ye, in yer omnipotence, wid 'gree
Tae guard an guide my littlins' gangrel feet.”

Her pleated hair hung lang, a hingin noose,
Her heid, turned slowly roon, wis faceless, boss:
“Fit guid's yer hope tae me? I'm sittin crouse,
Yer puny dwaums are anely eeseless dross,

Yer sweetest thocht is soored, an tribble-torn,
Wi aisse I smored yon beatin hairt langsyne.
I mak or mar ilk mortal thing that's born —
Ye gomeril — ye canna pledge fit's mine!”