THE GANGEREL

It’s ye maun whustle for a breeze Until the sails be fu’; They bigg yon ships that ride the seas To pleasure fowk like you. For ye hae siller i’ yer hand And a’ that gowd can buy, But weary, in a weary land, A gangerel-loon am I. Ye’ll feel the strang tides lift an’ toss The scud o’ nor’land faem, And when ye drap the Southern Cross It’s a’ roads lead ye hame. And ye shall see the shaws o’ broom Wave on the windy hill, Alang the strath the hairst-fields toom[19] And syne the stackyairds fill. Ye’ll hear fu’ mony a raittlin’ cairt On Forfar’s causey-croon,[20] Wi’ young stirks loupin’ to the Mairt That roars in Forfar toon. O’ nichts, ayont yer snibbet door, Ye’ll see in changeless band, Abune Craig Oule, to keep Strathmore, The stars of Scotland stand. But tho’ ye think ye sicht them fine Gang ben an’ tak’ yer rest, Frae lands that niver kent their shine It’s me that sees them best! For they shall brak’ their ancient trust, Shall rise nae mair nor set, The Sidlaw hills be laid in dust Afore that I forget. Lowse ye the windy-sneck a wheen, An’ glowre frae ilka airt Fegs! Ye may see them wi’ yer een— I see them wi’ my he’rt!