Mossgiel, Mossgiel, - the very name,
Sauchs like the win’, wi’ the whilly –lou cry
O’ a muirland bird at the owercome o’t .
But its no the aimless sang o’ the win’,
Gravels the hert at the minden o’t.
It’s the sicht o’ a man on yon hilltap,
Hauns thick, back bent, heid to the blast,
Rivin the slairgy guts o’ the sile,
Sour wi’ the fug and the thinkin’ o’t.
The thinkin’ o’t, and the ruin o’t,
The clinky yird and the plooin’ o’t.
The stoun o’ the hert the only sang
The only hope, the lang day duin,
And a man by the ingle licht ,
I’ the hauntit howe-dumb deid o’ the nicht,
Darg weary, sel’ –weary, aa his lane,
Deep in a lang green-mantled dream.
