Wi sang aa birds and beasts could I owrecome,
Aa men and wemen o’ the mapamound subdue;
The flouers o’ the fields,
Rocks and trees, boued doun to hear my leid;
Gurlie waters rase upon the land to mak
A throwgang for my feet.
I was the potent prince o’ ballatrie,
My lyre opened portes whareer I thocht to gang,
My fleean sangs mair ramsh nor wine
At Beltane, Yule or Hogmanay
Made wud the clans o’ men –
There wasna my maik upon the yerth
(Why should I no admit the fack?)
A hero, demi-god, my kingrik was the hert,
The passions and the saul –
Sic was my pouer.
– Anerlie my ain sel I couldna bend.
“He was his ain worst enemie,”
As the auld untentit bodachs say –
My hert, a leopard, ruthless, breme,
Gilravaged far and near
Seekan sensatiouns, passions that wad wauken
My Muse whan she was lollish.
No seenil the hert was kinnelt like a forest-bleeze …
I was nae maister o’ my ain but thirlit
Serf til his ramskeerie wants
– And yet I hained but ane in the hert’s deepest hert.
She, maist leefou, leesome leddy
– Ochone, ochone, Euridicie –
Was aye the queen of Orpheus’ hert, as I kent weill,
And wantan her my life was feckless drinkin,
Weirdless, thieveless dancin,
– And nou she’s gane.