BELOW the braes o heather, an far alang the glen,
The road rins southward, southward, that grips the sauls o men,
That draws their fitsteps aye awa frae hearth an frae fauld,
That pairts ilk freen' frae ither, an the young frae the auld.
An whiles I stand at mornin an whiles I stand at nicht,
To see it throu the gaisty gloom, gang slippin oot o sicht;
There's mony a lad will ne'er come back amang his ain to lie,
An its lang, lang waitin till the time gangs by.
An far ayont the bit o sky that lies abuin the hills,
There is the black toon standin mid the roarin o the mills.
Whaur the reek frae mony engines hangs 'atween it an the sun
An the lives are weary, weary, that are juist begun.
Doon yon lang road that winds awa my ain three sons they went,
They turned their faces southward frae the glens they aye haed kent,
An twa will never see the hills wi livin een again,
An it's lang, lang waitin while I sit my lane.
For ane lies whaur the gress is hiech abuin the gallant deid,
An ane whaur England's michty ships sail prood abuin his heid,
They couldna sleep mair saft at hame, the twa that sairved their king,
Were they laid aside their ain kirk yett, i' the flouer o the ling.
But whaur the road is twistin throu yon streets o care an sin,
My third braw son toils nicht an day for the gowd he fain wad win,
Whaur ilka man grapes i' the dark to get his neebor's share,
An it's lang, lang strivin i' the mirk that's there.
The een o love can pierce the muils that hide a sodger's grave,
An love that disna heed the sod will naither hear the wave,
But it canna see 'ayont the cloud that hauds my youngest doon
Wi its mist o greed an sorrow i' the smokin toon.
An whiles, when throu the open door there fades the deein licht,
I think I hear my ain twa men come up the road at nicht,
But him that bides the nearest seems the furthest aye frae me-
An it's lang, lang listenin till I hear the three!