Aiblins she thocht he’d hap her doon
In the old kirk-yaird ayont the toon
Whaur the kirkspire shadows his faither’s stane –
But she maun tak’ that gait her lane.
For at the mirk on yon hill-face
They dug for him a resting-place
Whaur the grass is wat wi’ the red-warm rain
And she maun tak’ her gait her lane.