I waive the quantum o' the sin,The hazard of concealing;But, Och! it hardens a' within,And petrifies the feeling!
Are we a piece of machinery that, like the Æolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the passing accident? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod?
Hear how he clears the points o' FaithWi' rattlin' an' thumpin'!Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,He's stampin', an' he's jumpin'!