IT was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin
At the kirk beside the sands,
Whaur the saumon-nets lay oot on the bents for dryin,
Wi the tar upon their strands;
A ruifless kirk i' the bield o the cliff-fit bidin,
An the deid laid near the waa;
A wheen auld cowpit stanes i the sea-gress hidin,
Wi the sea-soond ower them a'.
But it's mair nor daith that's here on the hauchs o Flanders,
An the deid lie closer in;
It's no the gull, but the hoodit craw that wanders
When the lang, lang nichts begin.
It's ill to dee, but there's waur things yet nor deein;
An the warst o a's disgrace;
For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein
To cover a couard's face.
Syne, a' is weel, tho my banes lie here for iver,
An hame is no for me,
Till the reid tide brak's like the spate in a roarin river
Ower the micht o Gairmanie.
Sae gang you back, my dear, whaur the gulls are cryin,
Gie thanks by kirk an grave,
That yer man keeps faith wi the land whaur his hert is lyin,
An the Lord will keep the lave.