At first peep o’ the whussle we were aff —
Hyterin by whins, a tattie wummlin’ on my speen,
Pechin tae win the line.

Chae cam first — a sleekit limmer o a loon,
Swickin, his tattie held doon, firm, wi his thoomb.

The meenister gaed him a prize, bit nae cheer.
I feenished wi the lave, naething byordnar,
Bit hinmaist, on cam Dod;
Skitin doon on his doup, sklytert in sharn,
Till, wi a roar, fowk rose tae clap him hame.

Syne, up he trauchles, jobbit wi nettles,
Face like a hairst meen, fit tae burst,
Tearin ower the grun.

I couldna fathom it ava; the fuss they held wi him,
Until my faither, wi a kindly grace, explained,
“It’s nae the rinnin o the race that coonts,
Bit foo it’s run.”

Grown aulder noo, I whyles mum my lot,
Fin ithers draw awa, an gain apace.
Bit syne his words return an comfort bring —
“It’s in the wye ye rin it — nae the race.”