The hinmaist whaup has quat his eerie skirl,
The flichtering gorcock tae his cover flown;
Din dwines athort the muir; the win’ sae lown
Can scrimply gar the stey peat-reek play swirl
Abune the herd’s auld bield, or halflins droon
The laich seep-sabbin o’ the burn doon by,
That deaves the corrie wi’ its wilyart croon.
I wadna niffer sic a glisk – not I –
Here, wi’ my fit on ane o’ Scotland’s hills,
Heather attour, and the mirk lift owre a’,
For foreign ferly or for unco sight
E’er bragg’d in sang; mair couthie joy distills
Frae this than glow’rin’ on the tropic daw’,
Or bleezin’ splendours o’ the norlan’ nicht.

Robert Reid (1850-1922)