Scour't to the bones, and mak' its marrow holes
Toom as a whistle as they used to be
In days I mind o' ere men fi dged wi' souls,
But naething had forgotten you as yet,
Nor you forgotten it.
so precious, Piah? I think sometimes
a self is an unnecessary growth, a kind
harmless, not too unsightly -- irritated
it will grow troublesome, at last maybe malignant.
an instrument, to be rightly proud of,
that works well, is even perhaps attractive and amusing --