A little spot of tangled ground
Set in the folding hill,
From curlew-haunted braes the sound
Of flitting voices shrill;
The high October sky unrolled
Above the plough-land’s crest,
Rank mallows by the hearthstone cold
With the field-mouse for guest;
Gudeman, it is long since the fire went out
And time that we went to rest.
The naked rafters overhead
Stand up like withered hands;
I mind me when the roof-tree spread
Where now the burdock stands.
The threshold’s deep between the whin
And fast in briers twined;
Where little feet ran out and in
The track is hard to find;
Gudeman, it is long since we closed the door
And left what it held behind.
Down in the strath the kirk is set
Upon the running burn;
It’s many roads we’ve trod, and yet
It’s here we must return.
Old lights along the fields are laid,
Old shadows lie as deep,
But new eyes watch them as they fade
Among the grazing sheep,
And it’s time we went down to Airlie kirk
And laid ourselves down to sleep.
❦