Killochyett

Killochyett! … Killochyett! …
The dusk is drappin’ doon;
The waefu’ wind is whimp’rin’ in the trees;
The lichts begin tae blink aboot the toon;
The sheep are huddlin’ closer on the leas;
And where the yaird is broon
The ploo is lyin’ anchored; pee-wees fret;
The blackie still keeps up his blithesome tune;
And the young mune in the sky
Is spielin’, spielin’ high
Tae seek oot Killochyett!

Killochyett! … Killochyett! …
I mind in France in ‘seventeen
Yid Dunn and me were restin’ in Merville.
It was the month o’ Mairch, and we had been
Baith wounded, and were geyan dowf and ill.
Oor crack was a’ o’ hame –
O’ Gala Water. Ne’er will I forget
The shout that, like a shot, frae Yid’s lips came.
God Almichty save us!
Listen til that mavis:
Killochyett! … Killochyett! …
Killochyett!