THE HOWE O’ THE MEARNS

Laddie, my lad, when ye gang at the tail o’ the plough

An’ the days draw in,

When the burnin’ yellow's awa’ that was aince a-lowe

On the braes o’ whin,

Do ye mind o’ me that's deaved wi’ the wearyfu’ south

An’ it's puir concairns

While the weepies fade on the knowes at the river's mouth

In the Howe o’ the Mearns?

There was nae twa lads frae the Grampians doon to the Tay

That could best us twa;

At bothie or dance, or the field on a fitba’ day,

We could sort them a’;

An’ at courtin’ - time when the stars keeked doon on the glen

An’ its theek o’ fairns,

It was you an’ me got the pick o’ the basket then

In the Howe o’ the Mearns.

London is fine, an’ for ilk o’ the lasses at hame

There'll be saxty here,

But the springtime comes an’ the hairst — an it's aye the same

Through the changefu year.

O, a lad thinks lang o’ hame ere he thinks his fill

As his breid he airns —

An’ they're thrashin’ noo at the white fairm up on the hill

In the Howe o’ the Mearns.

Gin I mind mysel’ an’ toil for the lave o’ my days

While I've een to see,

When I'm auld an’ done wi’ the fash o’ their English ways

I'll come hame to dee;

For the lad dreams aye o’ the prize that the man'll get,

But he lives an’ lairns,

An’ it's far, far‘ ayont him still — but it's farther yet

To the Howe o’ the Mearns.

Laddie, my lad, when the hair is white on yer pow

An’ the work's put past,

When yer hand's owre auld an’ heavy to haud the plough

I'll win hame at last,

An we'll bide our time on the knowes whaur the broom stands braw

An’ we played as bairns,

Till the last lang gloamin’ shall creep on us baith an’ fa’

On the Howe o’ the Mearns.