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O, blessit he, that gangs‐na wi The godless, nor will staun’ ’Mids’ sinfu’ men, nor sit wi’ them That scoff at God’s commaun’; But, day and nicht, fin’s his delicht, Aye foremaist abune a’, To ponder lang the thochts amang O’ God’s maist holie Law.

A tree that grows, whaur burnie rowes, In hairst‐time frit sal gie; Its leaves sae braw ne’er wilt awa’ — Sae sal the richteous be.

Because the wey o’ gude men aye The Lord dis brawly ken; But, shair as ocht, He’ll bring to nocht The gait o’ godless men.