I MIND, when I dream at nicht,
Whaur the bonnie Sidlaws stand
Wi their feet on the darkenin land
An their heids i' the licht;
An the thochts o youth rowe back
Like wreaths frae the hillside track
In the Vale o Strathmore;
An the autumn leaves are turnin
An the flame o the gean-trees burnin
Roond the white hoose door.
Aye me, when spring cam green
An Mey-month decked the shaws
There was scarce a blink o the wa's
For the flouer o the gean;
But when the hills were blue
Ye could see them glintin throu
An the sun i' the lift
An the flouer o the gean-trees fa'in
Was like pains frae the brainches snawin
In a lang white drift.
Thae trees are fair an gay
When Mey-month's in her prime,
But I'm thrawn wi the blasts o time
An my heid's white as they;
But an auld man aye thinks lang
O the hauchs he played amang
In his braw youth-tide;
An there's ane that aye keeps yearnin
For a hoose whaur the leaves are turnin
An the flame o the gean-tree burnin
By the Sidlaws' side.