Quo a wife wi a bairn at her breist
“Spik till’s o littlins”
Sae he made repon, “Yer bairns arena yer bairns
They’re the bairns o Life’s Langin fur leevin.
They traivel ben ye,
Bit arena pairt o ye. They bide wi ye
An yet ye dinna ain them;
Ye may gie them luv
Bit nae yer thochts.
Their thochts are aa their ain ...
Ye makk a bield fur their flesh
Bit nae their speerit,
Fur their speerit bides
In the Hoose o the Morn
An that ye canna veesit
Nae even in yer dwaums
Fur life gyangs aywis forrit
Niver back”

Quo a mason, steppin forrit
“Spik tae us o hooses”
Sae he made repon
“Bigg in yer thochts a sheilin in the muir
Er ye bigg a hoose in the toun
Fur fin ye gyang hame in the gloamin
Sae dis the gangrel inbye ye
The Iver-Afar-Aa-Alane

Yer hoose is yer greater body.
It grows i’ the sun,
It sleeps i’ the quate o nicht,
It isna teem o dwaums.
Dis yer hoose nae dwaum,
An dwaumin, quit the toun
Fur wid, or muirlan brae?

Tell’s, fowk o Orphalese
Fit keep ye in yer hames?
Fit is’t ye guaird
Wi snibbit doors?
Is’t peace? Is’t mem’ries? .
Yon glimmrin brigs
That raxx alang the summits o the Mind?
Is’t bonnieness o speerit?
Tell’s — hae ye these
Inbye yer hames?
Or hae ye anely comfort — an the wint o comfort
That sleekit scunner that gains the hoose, a guest
Syne feenishes its host, its verra maister
Its hauns are saft. Its hairt’s forged in the smiddy
The lust fur comfort smores the speerit
Syne wauks smirkin tae the kirkyaird like a gowk.