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If I gaed blin the morn
There's sichts, like draps o dew,
Wid bricht the dark...
Wippet an warm, safe within,
An' niver tyned.
I can mak Winter, Spring;
Fin I've a mind.

Lyin, stibble-chaffed, i' the hairst park,
Ringed bi lang-airmed trees,
The weird wid cleft wi calls
Watchin' the sair-made kye
Trauchle frae brae till byre;
The soughin' win' i the girse
An' the sky on fire.

Three hills, guardin' the west
An' a lang sweep doon
Tae an oxter o' tummlin' watter:
Fine tae cweel yer cheek
I' the bank-heich spray
Fin as stauns still
An the roses fa' bi the fern
At the ebb o day.

Age winna blaud this sicht...
A bairn's weel-treasured ferlies
Will gang wi me, ticht-keepit,
Intae the last guid nicht.

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