‘KIRRIE’
Comin’ oot frae Kirrie, when the autumn gowd an’ siller
At the hindmaist o’ September month has grips o’ tree an’ shaw,
The mune hung, deaved wi’ sunset, no a spunk o’ pride in till her,
Nae better nor a bogle, till the licht was awa;
An’ the haughs below the Grampains, i’ the evenin’ they were lyin’
Like a lang-socht Land o’ Promise that the cauld mist couldna smoor;
An’ tho’ ye didna see it, ye could hear the river cryin’
If ye stood a while to listen on the road to Kirriemuir.
There’s an auld wife bides in Kirrie—set her up! a pridefu’ crater—
And she’s crackin’ aye o’ London an’ the grand fowk ye may see;
O’ the King, an’ syne his palace, till I’m sure I’m like to hate her,
For the mairket-day in Kirrie is the sicht for me.
But ye ken I’m sweir to fash her, an’ it’s best to be agreein’,
For gin ye dinna heed her, then she’s cankered-like an’ soor,
Dod, she tells o’ muckle lairnin’—but I doot the bizzar’s[10] leein’,
For it’s fules wad bide in London when they kent o’ Kirriemuir.
O, the braw, braw toon o’ Kirrie! What a years that I hae lo’ed it!
And I winna seek to leave it tho’ I’m spared anither score;
I’d be greetin’ like a laddie for the auld reid hooses croodit
Lookin’ down upon the steadin’s and the fields o’ Strathmore.
Ye may speak o’ heavenly mansions, ye may say it wadna grieve ye
When ye quit a world sae bonnie—but I canna jist be sure,
For I’ll hae to wait, I’m thinkin’, or I see if I believe ye,
For my first braid blink o’ Heaven, an’ my last o’ Kirriemuir!