Weary wi' roamin', I sit in the gloamin',
I sit on my ain door-stane;
The flocks i' the fauld nestle close frae the cauld,
I sit an' I sigh here my lane.
The bent trees are groanin', the sad wind is moanin',
The shadow creeps over the hill,
The burn as it flows tells the tale of its woes,
But I as the shadow am still.
The road at its turnin', my dim eye discernin',
I mark where he cam wi' the kye,
Whan the day's wark was done, at the set o' the sun,
In the season forever forbye.
Fond hope that deceived me, cauld death that bereaved me,
My gudeman he left me sae young,
That, old and forlorn, he might hold me in scorn
Should I take his dear name on my tongue.
Still I oft by my gleamin' lone hearth fall a dreamin',
And think o' that season of auld,
Of a love was sae near, of a love was sae dear,
It has gared every ither seem cauld.
Should the grave in undoin' once bring me renewin',
More bonny for sairly tried truth,
I wad dare them to name you, my Donald, an' claim you,
Nae longer sae fashed by your youth.