Brerd Of Sloomy Saughs

The memories of an old man, who has lived amidst the moorland for many years.

Amidst a mornin' gale I look towards, 
The brae wist'd of the soothin' breeze,
As I see guises of rowans that skitter, 
The streams of murky swales in feeze.

Behind a garth in the boughs as I wander, 
Twain sparrows twitter sprack in the lea,
Beside the knolls ea'esdroppin' as I hear, 
The whirr of snigger of bairns by the sea.

They romp in frisk blithesome and droll, 
Near wearish fronds with the kith in mirth,
As I breathe the waft of the fresh midday, 
And see a stime glistenin' ayont the firth.

Abreast gowans that thrive along a wold, 
With a shrew saunterin' in thickets clutter'd,
Within the wutherin' winds that come forth, 
When the whinchats straightway flutter'd. 

Whither a harr frazzl'd in a damp grass,
Softenin' with ripples of sosses laggard,
As the drisky drow wanze'd for the nonce, 
With crisp leaves of trees that stagger'd. 

The canty dales shelter'd within the sun, 
O'er the edge of the leesome eareys anew,
With the harvest of the tilth eftsoon reap'd, 
From behind the byres drench'd in a dew.

A mickle of the bonny flowers blossom, 
By stoor oak trees swayin' in the weather,
Within the ground o'erlapp'd in the snow, 
As the white frost falls upon the heather. 

Henceforth the fronds become tawny, 
With winter wrestin' the stems of ferns,
When I warm myself blive under a hearth, 
As the chunks of wood tharfly lull the herns.

The time when my e'enings are hearty, 
With the winsome bustle of the moors,
Beseechin' those days of yore till'd then, 
By a weary sweat of the wrought boors. 

I bethink myself oft of the days of wayfare, 
As a sprog wendin' hither and thither bain,
With the tait kinsfolk and the welkin nigh,
By the brerd of sloomy saughs allus fain.