The deid sleep soun' in the auld kirkyaird,
At the fit o' the hills sae steep;
They dream sweet dreams aneath the swaird,
An' lang an' still is their sleep.
The whaup comes doon wi' an eerie cry,
An' the peesweep flaps a' day,
But they canna wauken the deid that lie
At rest in their shroods o' clay.
The grass grows lang an' waves at the heid
An' fit o' each sunk thruch-stane,
'Oh, waes me,' it sighs, 'for the faithfu' deid
That canna come back again.'
Then the win's tak' it up an' they cry to me,
As I lie on the grassy swaird,
'We ha'e ane that kent hoo to live an' dee,
And he sleeps in the auld kirkyaird.'
For when hate like a clud hung owre the lan',
For the faith that his faithers knew,
He took to the hills, wi' the sword in his han',
To fecht for the gude an' true.
An' when the storm o' his life grew still
They laid him doon to his rest,
In the auld kirkyaird at the fit o' the hill,
Wi' the green swaird on his breast,
An' what though nae stane can be seen at his held,
There is Ane wha dwalls abune,
That kens o' his grave where the grasses wave,
Wi' its kindly heart within.
An' when at the last the trumpet blast
Shall bid the heavens be bared,
Then God will min' o' that ae leal heart
That sleeps in the auld kirkyaird.