Slade Of Tors

A man's dying hour before the heaven he searches for.

The clouds of a storm yote, 
Onto a gain sloomy meadow,
And waning athwart the cam, 
Glisking then a bonny rainbow.

A swipper din has since whist'd, 
Aboon the sair blashy field soon,
As a thrush roosts in a birch tree,
Upon a dale with songs that croon. 

The harr a fretful bode to gaum, 
Stirring sheep bleating in the fold,
When reaching too swiftly at once, 
The cleft of the trees of the wold.

The heathers bloom for the nonce, 
After a thrang storm dwindles away,
O'erflowing the toom ford streaming, 
Ayont a bustling sea on the next day.

As spring comes I thole by a knoll, 
When I thus warish and ween bain,
Wandering the lea ahead with glee,
O'er the garths lovesome and fain.

I tew'd this land with all my brawn, 
Forwhy I am an auld man of the erd,
Where I walk onto a sorrowful cairn, 
With weary footsteps along the brerd.

I wend to the burn upon a smolt day, 
As the Lord takes me onto a welkin,
Wuthering winds blowing on my lire, 
Leading me with wings that glisten.

I am nigh when the keepers of heaven, 
Abide me freckly at the gate and doors,
Within the eldritch whitish roke hovering,
As my soul wanzes in the slade of tors.