by Tullich, overlooking the Coyles

There's nae a finer sicht in the warld:
Than the last step nearest hame.
There's nae a burn, bit I ken its turn
An its roarin road's my ain.

Quate they lie neth the shiftin sky,
Yon hills i' the smirry rain,
Like a lad cast aff — wi the last, lang lauch,
Ye've thocht on jist the same.

They'll greet ye ay, in a mither's wye,
Like a prodigal bairn she's tint,
For ilkie stane cries sair as pain:
“Did niver ye feel wir wint?”

An yon's the Ben that the Dee-fowk ken,
The star on the evenin's croon,
A Lord o War, it's Lochnagar,
Wha dings as ithers doon!

Oh wait, wait, wait, fur I'm comin yet —
An fain wid I rest ma ee,
Far the watters cowp, like a salmon's lowp,
In the breist o the birlin Dee.

There's nae a finer sicht in the warld,
Far anely the sib may sit,
Than the last step hame
An the place yer ain,
The balm fur a weary fit!