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 ilka crag’s a favoured face,
In ilka burn’s a frien –
An aa the days we’ve been apairt
Are as they’d niver been.