Aulder than mammoth or than mastodon   
Deep i’ the herts o’ a’ men lurk scaut-heid   
Skrymmorie monsters few daur look upon.
Brides sometimes catch their wild een, scansin’ reid,   
Beekin’ abune the herts they thocht to lo’e   
And horror-stricken ken that i’ themselves   
A like beast stan’s, and lookin’ love thro’ and thro’   
Meets the reid een wi’ een like seevun hells.   
... Nearer the twa beasts draw, and, couplin’, brak
The bubbles o’ twa sauls and the haill warld gangs black.

Yet wha has heard the beasts’ wild matin’-call   
To ither music syne can gi’e nae ear.
The nameless lo’enotes haud him in a thrall.   
Forgot are guid and ill, and joy and fear.
... My bluid sail thraw a dark hood owre my een   
And I sail venture deep into the hills
Whaur, scaddows on the skyline, can be seen
—Twinin’ the sun’s brent broo wi’ plaited horns
As gin they crooned it wi’ a croon o’ thorns—
The beasts in wha’s wild cries a’ Scotland’s destiny thrills.

The lo’es o’ single herts are strays; but there   
The herds that draw the generations are,   
And whasae hears them roarin’, evermair   
Is yin wi’ a’ that gangs to mak’ or mar   
The spirit o’ the race, and leads it still
Whither it can be led, ’yont a’ desire and will.

I

Wergeland, I mind o’ thee—for thy bluid tae
Kent the rouch 