Toun-fowk, wi' their cant o' couthie fairms
O' reid-cheek't bairns, an hamely fare
O' reemin brose bowls, sickle an the seed,
Hinna the stab o' the ploo
In their hairt's bluid.
Like rattens i' the strae
They glean the best o't.
Niver keepit vigil in a byre
At the bare back o' midnicht,
Bane-weary, numb-neived, cauld.
Ruggin a new born breet
Frae its shudderin mither's sides,
Girth wallopin an weet,
Intae the darksome stall.

It's then, at the chap o' the deid oors,
Like a foreman's sweir,
The door o' the barn tit-tits.
Ootbye, the mune-struck hills are a stair.
Oh, gin I cud, I'd climb them Up till the stars, that hing
A frostit furrow, in the air.
Back till the crack o' Time, back lang
As the fowk that vrocht afore,
Wha kent that naething maitters
O' the hale jing bang,
Bit the muckle hills, an the grun,
Braes, beasts, an hairsts,
An' the win's sang.