Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake. Boom
Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o' day, corncrakes
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay;
And, when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, those
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r owls