The perfect Scots poem

Thinking of Burns; looking forward to the Burns supper I've been invited to tonight (vegetarian haggis, of course: thank you, Helen and Matt); having been happily reminded of my favourite Borges fiction; what comes to mind this morning is for me the most perfect Scots poem of all; a poem whose emotional connection with me remains as strong as when, as a schoolboy, I first found it. Apparently the composer James Macmillan has been inspired by this poem many times: I must seek out his pieces. Anyway, I've posted this before but, when we're celebrating the immortal memory I want to remember also William Soutar.

The Tryst

O luely, luely, cam she in
And luely she lay down:
I kent her be her caller lips
And her breists sae sma' and roun'.

A' thru the nicht we spak nae word
Nor sinder'd bane frae bane:
A' thru the nicht I heard her hert
Gang soundin' wi' my ain.

It was aboot the waukrife hour
When cocks begin to craw
That she smool'd saftly thru the mirk
Afore the day wud daw.

Sae luely, luely, cam she in
Sae luely was she gaen;
And wi' her a' my simmer days
Like they had never been.