The Makar

Nae man wha loves the lawland tongue

but warstles wi' the thoucht-

there are mair sangs that bide unsung

nor a' that hae been wroucht.

Ablow the wastrey o' the years,

the thorter o' himsel'

deep buried in his bluid

he hears a music that is leal.

And wi' this lealness gangs his ain;

and there's nae ither gait

though a' his feres were fremmit men

wha cry: Owre late, owre late.