THE GANGEREL
It’s ye maun whustle for a breezeUntil the sails be fu’;They bigg yon ships that ride the seasTo pleasure fowk like you.For ye hae siller i’ yer handAnd a’ that gowd can buy,But weary, in a weary land,A gangerel-loon am I.Ye’ll feel the strang tides lift an’ tossThe scud o’ nor’land faem,And when ye drap the Southern CrossIt’s a’ roads lead ye hame.And ye shall see the shaws o’ broomWave on the windy hill,Alang the strath the hairst-fields toom[19]And syne the stackyairds fill.Ye’ll hear fu’ mony a raittlin’ cairtOn Forfar’s causey-croon,[20]Wi’ young stirks loupin’ to the MairtThat roars in Forfar toon.O’ nichts, ayont yer snibbet door,Ye’ll see in changeless band,Abune Craig Oule, to keep Strathmore,The stars of Scotland stand.But tho’ ye think ye sicht them fineGang ben an’ tak’ yer rest,Frae lands that niver kent their shineIt’s me that sees them best!For they shall brak’ their ancient trust,Shall rise nae mair nor set,The Sidlaw hills be laid in dustAfore that I forget.Lowse ye the windy-sneck a wheen,An’ glowre frae ilka airtFegs! Ye may see them wi’ yer een—Isee them wi’ my he’rt!
FOOTNOTES:[19]Empty.[20]The middle of the street.
[19]Empty.
[19]Empty.
[20]The middle of the street.
[20]The middle of the street.