Nor trees in Spring or fall;
An' tidden woody slopes an' nooks,
Do touch us mwost ov all;
An' tidden ivy that do cling
By housen big an' wold, O,
But this is, after all, the thing,—
The pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.
At Burn, where mother's young friends know'd
The vu'st her maïden neäme,
The zunny knaps, the narrow road