The skies drift doon — a dreepin blur
That maks o Ben an brae a shroud.
As if grown weary o the lan,
The mountain coories i' the cloud

An naething steers within this warld
O stormy lift, an troubled tarn,
Bit drooned reflection o the hills
As lang as Time, as bricht as starn.

In ilkie crag's a favoured face,
In ilkie burn's a frien,
An as the days we've bin apairt
Are as they'd niver been.