12 Wha has the skill to ken the ill His ain mislearin’ wins? O, hain me frae the wyte, I pray, O’ happit, hidden sins.
Blythe be the man that’s waled by Thee To airt him to Thy side, That he athin Thy faulds sae fine For evermair may bide.
For in Thine angir ilka day O’ oors drees dreich alang; And a’ oor years they wear awa Like soughs o’ silenced sang.