a creeping cauld prosaic fog

my very sense doited.

do what i dought to set her free,

my sauly in the mire;

ye turned a neuk—i saw your e'e—

she took the wing like fire!

the mournfu' sang i here enclose,

in gratitude i send you,

and pray, in rhyme as weel as prose,

a' gude things may attend you!