There comes a time, at the dour back end
Fin the craps are in an stored
The birds flee gyte, fur the Winter's bite's
On a lan, far the growth lies smored.

A fairmer traivels his ain bit grun —
It's siller, an wirk, an strife,
An the muirlan fen, that he trauchles ben
Is his unclaimed secunt wife.

A bairn, a man, a beast, a grain,
Grow, sherpenin fur the knife
Born alane, an beeriet alane
An whyles, ower-weel acquant wi pain
Fur aathin gien there's a somethin taen
In the kirk-or-a-mill o life.

Sae, I'll hae the gloamin onyday
Far the cloud an the dirt are mirled
An the hairse craw crawin abeen the grey
Is a voice frae anither warld.

Fur mebbe, jist mebbe, there's room fur baith
Fairmer an dreamer tae;
Him wi his hauns that reap an bind
Ithers fa gaither thochts tae mind
The yowe in the pen, and the reengin hind
Climmin the self-same brae.