They lie ablow the grun
Thur freens I kent.
Maybe some day like this
They'll think o me,
Thur freens I ken;
My banes tae stanes
My luvin flesh tae poother syne.
But aa my hert abune
Singing, lowin wi the gowden
Graps, and roses reid an white
Canty wi the cannie Ayrshire
Kye in field or byre
Or watchin for the muin at nicht
Abune the Urr
I this auld auld neuk
O Gallowa.
Or delvin wi the man that hands my
spade or graip.
Let him be dibblin in
Musselburgh leeks come Glesca Fair
I the weel dunged tilth that threw
His Epicures and Sharpes Express
An I'll be nae grievin ghaist.
1973
