Sunset Song

 A land o heather, gorse, an stane,
whar win flits cauld ower fields sae wide.
Here bides Chris, atween twa tongues
Scots in hert, the schule’s auld words
torn atween the aye an what maun be.

Her faither, hard as frost-bit yird,
stricks the land an them he lous.
Her mither, worn, gaes tae silence,
brithers flee, an Chris bides still
tethered tae the croft an pain.

The land sings saft in simmer licht,
the sigh o wheat, the sab o rain.
But time rins fast; war cums roarin,
takkin men tae fremmit graves,
takkin Ewan, love turned fremmit,
hame tae dee, yet niver mair.

Still the land bides,
gowd an quate, unbent by dule.
Chris, her lane, wauks the rigs,
her hairt sair, her hauns strang
a quine shaped by sang an soil.