Callander, 4 p.m.

The dull leaden skies are all clouded

In the gloom of a sad weeping day,

The desolate mountains are shrouded

In palls of funereal grey;

'Mid the skirl of the wild wintry weather

The torrents descend in a sheet

As we shiver all huddled together

In the reek of the smouldering peat.