They tell me Corrie’s alter’t now;
It’s drain’t, they say, an’ fenced an’ plantit;
But as I min’ ’t, lang syne, I trow,
Drain, fence, an’ biel war sairly wantit.
Than what is’t gars me ply my pen
I’ scribblin’ doon this rhymin’ clatter?
An’ what is’t mak’s me aye sae fain
To hear or read o’ Corrie water?
Atweel it is a simple thing
As ever dreamer wastit time on;