THE BLIND SHEPHERD

The land is white, an’ far awa’

Abune ae bush an’ tree

Nae fit is movin’ i’ the snaw

On the hills I canna see;

For the sun may shine an’ the darkness fa’,

But aye it's nicht to me.

I hear the whaup on windy days

Cry up amang the peat

Whaur, on the road that speels the braes,

I've heard my ain sheep's feet,

An’ the bonnie lambs wi’ their canny ways

An’ the silly yowes that bleat.

But noo wi’ them I mauna’ be,

An’ by the fire I bide,

To sit and listen patiently

For a fit on the great hillside,

A fit that'll come to the door for me

Doon through the pasture wide,

Maybe I'll hear the baa'in’ flocks

Ae nicht when time seems lang,

An’ ken there's a step on the scattered rocks

The fleggit sheep amang,

An’ a voice that cries an’ a hand that knocks

To bid me rise an’ gang.

Then to the hills I'll lift my een

Nae matter tho’ they're blind,

For Ane will treid the stanes between

And I will walk behind,

Till up, far up i’ the midnicht keen

The licht o’ Heaven I'll find.

An’ maybe, when I'm up the hill

An’ stand abune the steep,

I'll turn aince mair to look my fill

On my ain auld flock o’ sheep,

An’ I'll leave them lyin’ sae white an’ still

On the quiet braes asleep.