My heid’s dementit an’ my feet’s the same,
When they’ll no wark thegither it’s a lang road hame;
An’ we’ve twa mile to traivel or it’s mair like three,
But I’ve got a grip o’ Alick, an’ ye’d best grip me. 
    Geordie Faa!  Geordie Faa! 
The morn’s near brakin’ an’ we’ll need awa’,
Gin ye’re aye blawin’ strang, then we’ll maybe get alang,
An’ the deevil tak’ the laddie that’s the first to fa’!

CRAIGO WOODS

Craigo Woods, wi’ the splash o’ the cauld rain beatin’
  I’ the back end o’ the year,
When the clouds hang laigh wi’ the weicht o’ their load o’ greetin’
  And the autumn wind’s asteer;
Ye may stand like gaists, ye may fa’ i’ the blast that’s cleft ye
  To rot i’ the chilly dew,
But when will I mind on aucht since the day I left ye
  Like I mind on you—­on you?

Craigo Woods, i’ the licht o’ September sleepin’
  And the saft mist o’ the morn,
When the hairst climbs to yer feet, an’ the sound o’ reapin’
  Comes up frae the stookit corn,
And the braw reid puddock-stules are like jewels blinkin’
  And the bramble happs ye baith,
O what do I see, i’ the lang nicht, lyin’ an’ thinkin’
  As I see yer wraith—­yer wraith?

There’s a road to a far-aff land, an’ the land is yonder
  Whaur a’ men’s hopes are set;
We dinna ken foo lang we maun hae to wander,
  But we’ll a’ win to it yet;
An’ gin there’s woods o’ fir an’ the licht atween them,
  I winna speir its name,
But I’ll lay me doon by the puddock-stules when I’ve seen them,
  An’ I’ll cry “I’m hame—­I’m hame!”

THE WILD GEESE

“O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin’ norlan’ Wind,
As ye cam’ blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind? 
My feet they traivel England, but I’m dee’in for the north.” 
“My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o’ Forth.”

“Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa’ an’ rise,
And fain I’d feel the creepin’ mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?”
“My man, I rocked the rovin’ gulls that sail abune the Tay.”

“But saw ye naething, leein’ Wind, afore ye cam’ to Fife? 
There’s muckle lyin’ ’yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life.” 
“My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae’na trod for years.” 
“O Wind, forgi’e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!”

“And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o’ beatin’ wings, wi’ their heids towards the sea,
And aye their cryin’ voices trailed ahint them on the air—­”
“O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!”

GLOSSARY