Last night I saw the sunset, he looked both wroth and red,
As if he knew when dawning came I'd still be lay-a-bed.
From crag and scaur and heather I hear the popping shot,
And not a single bird, Willie, has fallen to my lot.
III.
What say you? "'Tis a soft day, the roads are runnin' burns,
"The heather's a' wet blankets, ye might droon ye in the ferns;
Ye canna see a hand forenent, the mist's sae white and chill,
Ye'd sune be bogged amang the muirs, and lost upon the hill."
IV.