It lacks the fine feenish an' city-bred air,

The rickety bus in the country-toon square,

But it's grand when the driver says: "Richt awa' noo;

There's nae sign o' Wull, an' forbye, we're near fu."

 

Then he coaxes the starter, the clutch, an' the brake,

An' the flair starts to dance an' the windas to shake:

There's a screech, then a breenge that sets shooglin' oor banes,

An' we stot through the toon ower its auld cobble-stanes.

 

She's across the wee briggie an' doon past the mill,

She wheechs roon' the bend, an' she pechs up the hill;

There's laughin' an' crackin', a lang drawn-oot sigh,

An' Jock on the baker's van hails us gaun by.

 

The distant hills birl to the swish o' the trees,

The sweet scent o' wuid-smoke comes doon on the breeze;

There's a lamb on the road, far stravaiged frae its maw,

An' we stop while the driver lad shoos it awa'.

 

Ay, it hasna' the feenish, the city-bred air,

Yet the finest o' roadsters was never sae fair

As that rickety bus, 'mang the folks that I ken,

When she takes the last bend  to my hame in the glen.