'There's nae guid comes
A's wrack, fin the Cyards are here
Wi a birn o bairns at their back
An their hawkin gear.'
Bit the lassie didna list
She wis mad tae lift the sneck
On the cyard's kist.

There wisna the gowden glint,
Nor the silk sae braw
The finest Flander's lace,
Nor the ring sae sma.
Bit the road that niver ends
An the words unsaid,
The darklin wid for a wa'
An the whin for a bed.

Tell true, did iver ye wist?
The hale o the warld lies there,
I' the cyard's kist!