THE land is white, an far awa
Abuin ae bush an tree
Nae fit is movin i' the snaw
On the hills I canna see;
For the sun mey shine an the darkness fa',
But aye it's nicht to me.
I hear the whaup on windy days
Cry up amang the peat
Whaur, on the road that speels the braes,
I've heard my ain sheep's feet,
An the bonnie lambs wi their canny weys
An the silly yowes that bleat.
But noo wi them I mauna be,
An by the fire I bide,
To sit an listen patiently
For a fit on the great hillside,
A fit that'll come to the door for me
Doon throu the pasture wide,
Mibbie I'll hear the baain flocks
Ae nicht when time seems lang,
An ken there's a step on the scattered rocks
The fleggit sheep amang,
An a voice that cries an a hand that knocks
To bid me rise an gang.
Then to the hills I'll lift my een
Nae maiter tho they're blinnd,
For Ane will treid the stanes between
An I will walk behind,
Till up, far up i' the midnicht keen
The licht o Heeven I'll finnd.
An mibbie, when I'm up the hill
An stand abuin the steep,
I'll turn aince mair to leuk my fill
On my ain auld flock o sheep,
An I'll leave them lyin sae white an still
On the quiet braes asleep.