The Rowan

When the days were still as deith
And you couldna see the kye
Though ye’d maybe hear their breith
I’ the mist oot-by;
When I’d mind the lang grey een
O’ the warlock by the hill
And sit fleggit like a wean
Gin a whaup cried shrill;
Tho’ the hert wad dee in me
At the fitstep on the floor,
There was aye a rowan tree
Wi its airm across the door.

But that is far, far past
And a’thing’s just the same,
There’s a whisper up the blast
O’ a dreid I daurna name;
And the shilpit sun is thin,
Like an auld man deein’ slow
And a shade comes creepin’ in
When the fire is fa’in’ low;
Then I feel thae lang een set
Like a doom upon ma heid,
For the warlock’s livin’ yet—
But the rowan’s deid!