Oh! the years, the years, they be rusty and mothy;
Oh! the flesh it is weak that once was strong;
But the brown burn under the stone falls frothy
And the music it makes is a siren song;
Then the pony’ll take you as far as the bothy,
And that’ll help you along.
See! from the tops the mist is stealing,
Out with the stalking-glass for a spy;
Round Craig an Eran an eagle’s wheeling
Black in the blue September sky.