Classic Poem

Why sinks the sun sae slowly doon
Behind the Hill o' Fare?
What restless cantrip 's ta'en the moon?—
She 's up an hour an' mair.
I doubt they 're in a plot the twa
To cheat me o' the gloamin';
Yestreen they saw me slip awa',
An' ken where I gang roamin'.

The trees bent low their list'nin' heads
A' round the Loch o' Skene;
The saft winds whispered 'mang the reeds
As we gaed by yestreen.
The bee, brushed fae the heather bell,
Hummed loudly at our roamin',
Syne hurried hame in haste to tell
The way we spent the gloamin'.

The mavis told his mate to hush
An' hearken fae the tree;
The robin keekit fae a bush
Fu' pawkily an' slee.
An' now they sing o' what they saw
Whenever we gang roamin';
They pipe the very words an' a'
We whispered in the gloamin'.

The wintry winds may tirr the trees,
Clouds hide baith sun an' moon,
An early frost the loch may freeze,
An' still the birdies' tune.
The bee a harried bike may mourn,
An' mirk o'ertak' the gloamin',
But aye to thee my thochts will turn,
Wherever I gang roamin'.