I hear the whaup on windy days
  Cry up amang the peat
Whaur, on the road that speels the braes,
  I’ve heard my ain sheep’s feet,
An’ the bonnie lambs wi’ their canny ways
  An’ the silly yowes that bleat.

But noo wi’ them I mauna’ be,
  An’ by the fire I bide,
To sit and listen patiently
  For a fit on the great hillside,
A fit that’ll come to the door for me
  Doon through the pasture wide,

Maybe I’ll hear the baa’in’ flocks
  Ae nicht when time seems lang,
An’ ken there’s a step on the scattered rocks
  The fleggit sheep amang,
An’ a voice that cries an’ a hand that knocks
  To bid me rise an’ gang.

Then to the hills I’ll lift my een
  Nae matter tho’ they’re blind,
For Ane will treid the stanes between
  And I will walk behind,
Till up, far up i’ the midnicht keen
  The licht o’ Heaven I’ll find.

An’ maybe, when I’m up the hill
  An’ stand abune the steep,
I’ll turn aince mair to look my fill
  On my ain auld flock o’ sheep,
An’ I’ll leave them lyin’ sae white an’ still
  On the quiet braes asleep.

THE DOO’UCOT UP THE BRAES

Beside the doo’cot up the braes
  The fields slope doon frae me,
An fine’s the glint on blawin’ days
  O’ the bonnie plains o’ sea.

Below’s my mither’s hoosie sma’,
  The smiddy by the byre
Whaur aye my feyther dings awa’
  And my brither blaws the fire.

For Lachlan lo’es the smiddy’s reek,
  An’ Geordie’s but a fule
Wha’ drives the plough his breid to seek,
  And Rob’s to teach the schule;

He’ll haver roond the schulehoose wa’s,
  And ring the schulehoose bell,
He’ll skelp the scholars wi’ the tawse
  (I’d like that fine mysel’!)

They’re easy pleased, my brithers three—­
  I hate the smiddy’s lowe,
A weary dominie I’d be,
  An’ I canna thole the plough.

But by the doo’cot up the braes
  There’s nane frae me can steal
The blue sea an’ the ocean haze
  An’ the ships I like sae weel.

The brigs ride oot past Ferryden
  Ahint the girnin’ tugs,
And the lasses wave to the Baltic men
  Wi’ the gowd rings i’ their lugs.

My mither’s sweir to let me gang. 
  My feyther gi’es me blame,
But youth is sair and life is lang
  When yer he’rt’s sae far frae hame.

But i’ the doo’cot up the braes,
  When a’tumn nichts are mirk,
I’ve hid my pennies an’ my claes
  An’ the Buik I read at kirk,

An’ come ae nicht when a’ fowks sleep,
  I’ll lift them whaur they lie,
An’ to the harbour-side I’ll creep
  I’ the dim licht o’ the sky;

An’ when the eastern blink grows wide,
  An’ dark still smoors the west,
A Baltic brig will tak’ the tide
  Wi’ a lad that canna rest!

LOGIE KIRK