Pair Harvey’s deid that draftit Finn,
he’s crossin owre thon drumlie linn
whaur naethin nesh can noo begin
     as green as grief
oor ranks are growein unca thin
     wi nae relief.

Thi hoonds that hunt, thi spear that slees,
thi stag that rears his heid then flees,
thi harp that sings o scenes lyk these,
     are been and gane:
noo he’s been cairried on thi breeze
     they’re scarts on stane.
 
Fae Corbie Hill across thi Tay
lyk wagtails wurds are blaan away
intil the Seedlies whaur there’s nae
     lug they could catch;
ayont, Schiehallion’s blankest page
     whaur nane will hatch.