Ilkie fit is reeted in the yird
Ilkie heid's a scaffold tae a cloud
Yon circle bides unbrukken
Bi thunner, drucht,
Or weety, sleety rain.
Ilkie steen luiks inwird
Nae chink in the ayebydan, clinkit chyne
Far sabbin wins makk eerie, fearie mane.
Auncient an eildritch as a widda's dirge
The circle croons the knowe;
Weird as a warlock's forge

It stauns alane.
A wummlin wirm, the mist wyves ben its weft
The faither-steen yokes noontime pouer o sun
The mither, milky bi meenlicht,
Is o aa warmth bereft.
Thon twa, the muckle flankers
Haive their lang shaddas far the corbies cooer
Dream their derk widdendremes

There is nae yett inbye … nae yett ootower
The littlins' spirk o life
Wis forged ower a flint altar
Weirin the wechty halter
O eternity.
A birthin bed they cudna jink nur flee
Preened tae bitter air
That fussles winter-blawn
Throw their unhaly lair

The circle rears its ghaistly hull o been
A tomb … or temple cast in Druid steen.