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There was an auld carle wonn'd under yon shaw,
His cheek was the clay, and his hair was the snaw;
His brow was as glazed as the winter night,
But mingled with lines of immortal light;
And forth from his livid lips there flew
A flame of a lurid murky hue.
But there was a mystery him within,
That roused up the twangs and terrors of sin;
And there was a gleide in that auld carle's ee,
That the saint and the sinner baith trembled to see.