Gowans By A Brash Chiel

A tribute to Robert Burns.

The lown moors bustle with a gale,
'Baht the croft there in a bonny dale,
Red-wing'd blackbirds fain and hale,
Within the peat bog and the swale.

The auld canty field once too fallow,
A braird by the clachans that wallow, 
'Neath the sky glitterin' the window,
Afower the smolt glint of a rainbow.

Tew, tew again the sweat wrought,
Till the e'entides have bain sought,
With the lonesome thistles brought, 
In the dunnest days of the drought.

Whither strive billies yald and cle'er,  
Tillin' the seeds of the morrow e'er, 
Where clouds straggle and not be'er,
As the smergh of yore dwineth ne'er. 

Sowthin' leeds to the dink kimmer, 
With the leures that swiftly glimmer, 
As it gareth them greet in a shimmer, 
And the woosters hie when dimmer.

Broostlin' within a wanhope dreigh,
As sairy dargers eident and skeigh,
Wean'd there 'lang a grushy saugh, 
Amidst the keekin' and sicker haugh. 

Sprack dreep to that yonder field,
O'er the glen whence lieth a bield, 
With the eyes of reapers that wield,
Jigger'd till the nightfalls that yield. 

Drudgeries spread ayont the shiel, 
'Lang the gowans by a brash chiel,
Theenin' wheem and in rowth weal,
With the comin' of drows that heal.