4 But there’s a burn, that gledsome wins Athing the brugh o’ God — The haudin’ heale, that He abune Has waled for His abode.
He mak’s me rest, whaur pasture’s best, And wimplin’ waters wend.
O, let Thy licht leme and Thy truth, To airt me straucht to Thee; And wear me til Thy holie hill, Whaur Thy lown biggins be.
The fludes, O Lord, wi’ fearsome din And loodsome roarin’ ran; The rushin’ fludes rax’t heigh abune, As gin they’d loup the lan’