There's waur-aff fowk;
I've a hoose, an a rikkin lum,
I've meat in ma wame,
An a puckle o years tae come;
Bit lang's the unquate nicht
Fin the clash o the day is deen.
An oh, it's a sair-made dyke,
That beeries a rollin stane.

Hame is a settin compass, pintin west,
Nae curlew sattles weel in a spurgie's nest,
Nae rodden blooms in the airm o the larick tree,
An tribble's a passin cloud, in ma ain countrie.

Infauldin, furlin Dee,
Far the hairse grouse cries an cries
An the roads are sure an sma,
The winter wave is a cailleach
Shakkin a shawl o snaw,
Fir feather fleece;
Are the neebours the hillmen ken
Wi scarce a steadin ava, i' the gap o a Ben
An the stag is forkit lichtenin,
King o the misty glen.

Gin the girse grows thick,
The heather winna thrive.
In a drouthy ditch
There's niver the troot alive.
Foriver an ay it's the same auld, hauntin rug,
The yammerin Norlan geese, in a Heilan lug.

Ye may tell me the girse is sweet —
I say it's druchtit!
My airt's far the hills rin weet —
Hame-drawn, hame-drauchtit.