Nae man wha loves the lawland tongue
but warstles wi' the thoucht-
there are mair sangs that bide unsung
nor a' that hae been wroucht.
Ablow the wastrey o' the years,
the thorter o' himsel'
deep buried in his bluid
he hears a music that is leal.
And wi' this lealness gangs his ain;
and there's nae ither gait
though a' his feres were fremmit men
wha cry: Owre late, owre late.
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