THE LAST O' THE TINKLER
Lay me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin's thick wi' nicht;
I canna' see yer face, lad,
For my een's no richt,
But it's owre late for leein',
An' I ken fine I'm deein',
Like an auld craw fleein'
To the last o' the licht.
The kye gang to the byre, lad,
An' the sheep to the fauld,
Ye'll mak' a spunk o' fire, lad,
For my he'rt's turned cauld;
An' whaur the trees are meetin',
There's a sound like waters beatin',
An' the bird seems near to greetin',
That was aye singin' bauld.
There's jist the tent to leave, lad,
I've gaithered little gear,
There's jist yersel' to grieve, lad,
An' the auld dug here;
An' when the morn comes creepin',
An' the waukw'nin' birds are cheipin',
It'll find me lyin' sleepin'
As I've slept saxty year.
Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad,
An' baith be traiv'lin west,
But me that's auld an' done, lad,
I'll bide an' tak' my rest;
For the grey heid is bendin',
An' the auld shune's needin' mendin',
But the traiv'lin's near its endin',
And the end's aye the best.
IN ENGLISH
FRINGFORD BROOK
The willows stand by Fringford brook,
From Fringford up to Hethe,
Sun on their cloudy silver heads,
And shadow underneath.
They ripple to the silent airs
That stir the lazy day,
Now whitened by their passing hands,
Now turned again to grey.
The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume
Droops tasselled on the stem,
The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame
The grass that harbours them;