1. Whan the licht gaes thin wi the westlin breeze, Ah daur tae mind ye 'neath birken trees. Yer shade aye steps where mine maun bide, Like thistle bloom on the lochside tide. O sang sae lown, sae lang forgot, Ye’re whaur the gloamin’ grips the throat. An in ma mooth, yer name turns verse— But verse dis melt tae wind, tae worse... 2. Ah wrote yer name wi ash and pine, Then watched it fa wi nae design. The nicht dis weave what day dis flee— And ye are mair nor sang tae me. O sang sae lown, sae lang forgot, Ye’re whaur the gloamin’ grips the throat. Ma ain voice slips, like driftin' air— Haa’rra, shainnor... lieri sair...
