THE GANGEREL
It’s ye maun whustle for a breeze
Until the sails be fu’;
They bigg yon ships that ride the seas
To pleasure fowk like you.
For ye hae siller i’ yer hand
And a’ that gowd can buy,
But weary, in a weary land,
A gangerel-loon am I.
Ye’ll feel the strang tides lift an’ toss
The scud o’ nor’land faem,
And when ye drap the Southern Cross
It’s a’ roads lead ye hame.
And ye shall see the shaws o’ broom
Wave on the windy hill,
Alang the strath the hairst-fields toom[19]
And syne the stackyairds fill.
Ye’ll hear fu’ mony a raittlin’ cairt
On Forfar’s causey-croon,[20]
Wi’ young stirks loupin’ to the Mairt
That 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 fine
Gang ben an’ tak’ yer rest,
Frae lands that niver kent their shine
It’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 dust
Afore that I forget.
Lowse ye the windy-sneck a wheen,
An’ glowre frae ilka airt
Fegs! Ye may see them wi’ yer een—
I see them wi’ my he’rt!