WAE’S ME

Aroun’ my bit bieldie the cauld win’ is soughing, The dull rain is patt’ring amang the deid leaves, The mist-wreaths are swirling about the grey mountains, The wee drookit birds huddle close ’neath the eaves. Alang the bleak shore the lane sea gangs a sobbin’ Like some wander’d bairnie that fain wad win hame, Aye seekin’ an’ seekin’, an’ never yet findin’,— Sure man, in his pilgrimage here, is the same. The sky has nae promise, the earth hauds nae pleesure. I look north an’ south, an’ I look east an’ west, An’ I envy the folk i’ the kirk-yaird out yonder, For there, ’mang the mools, there is rest—there is rest!