When in the fog the Rhone runs grey,

And watch the salmon leap in Spey.

 The hills are feathered with young trees, I set them for my children's boys. I made a garden deep in ease, A pleasance for my lady's joys. Strangers have heired them. Long ago She died,—kind fortune thus to die; And my one son by Beauly flow Gave up the soul that could not lie. 

I set them for my children's boys.

A pleasance for my lady's joys.

She died,—kind fortune thus to die;

Gave up the soul that could not lie.

 Old, elbow-worn, and pinched I bide The final toll the gods may take. The laggard years have quenched my pride; They cannot kill the ache, the ache. 

The final toll the gods may take.

They cannot kill the ache, the ache.

 Weep not the dead, for they have sleep Who lie at home: but ah, for me In the deep grave my heart will weep With longing for my lost countrie. 

Who lie at home: but ah, for me

With longing for my lost countrie.

 Hearts to break but nane to sell, Gear to tine but nane to hain;— We maun dree a weary spell Ere our lad comes back again. 

Hearts to break but nane to sell,

Gear to tine but nane to hain;—

We maun dree a weary spell

Ere our lad comes back again.

 

 

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