3 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’
Gin hills be cuisten in the sea, And rushin’ waters roar; And gin the heighest hills sood quake The risin’ fludes afore.
But there’s a burn, that gledsome wins Athing the brugh o’ God — The haudin’ heale, that He abune Has waled for His abode.