Fin they lower the towes frae day tae the dowie dark
An the warldly claes I hae, is a timmer sack
Oh dinna be sweir tae cowp the clay ower me
Fur its anely a pucklie banes tae the mools ye'll gie!

The braith o' me'll wheeple up far the peesies cry
Frae the cauld, clean braes o Coull, tae the salmon sky
An the sicht o' me'll feast richt full on the lang linn's faa
Far the showders o Lochnagar rise tap o' aa.

Oh dinna be laith tae bid me the last fareweel
Frae a warld far the weird I dreed wis a cankered dreel
Fur I'll be the preen-prick frost, that flooers in the snaw
The sang in the uplan burn, in the April thaw.

Tint in the fir-wid's gloamin, there I'll be
In the mornin dyew that glimmers frae tree tae tree
An laich far the barley reeshles her gowden goun
I'll be the glint in the girse at the lang rig's foun.

Daith anely frichtens fowk wi gear tae ain
Bit I hae naethin tae loss, an aa tae gain.