Ower Straiton hills wi’ watery sulks,
(Begrudging’ us the shrinkin’ day
The wintry sun the summit baulks,
An’ weary rises dim an’ grey.
The hoary white or frosty wrap
Is o’er the hills and valleys shed,
Mesmerises in it’s trap
Wild life not already dead.
The sun noo weel abin the Napps,
Comes keekin’ thru’ the broken cloud,
An’ spot-lichs a’ the braes an’ slaps
Adorned in their December shrouds.
The fitful’ licht see Capnoch Lynn
Gae rippling’ ower the time worn stanes,
The waters thrash wi’ speed and din
Kilhenzie holm syne lulls their strains.
Culdoon looks doon on Carder’s Burn,
Whar bairnies prance wi’ jars an’ luggies,
Each generation in their turn
Hae guddled for the lively ‘buggies’.
Cross Allan’s Hill an’ up the Glen,
WE turn tae Cock-a-Drighty,
Whar Lawson gaed the spring a pen
When Rodrick’s name was mighty.
Parliament Dyke sae lang since snedd,
Lik’ the hoffs on Coral Hill,
Whar Ruggie Duggie made his bed,
And Lizzie Blyhely drank her gill.
Alang Whitehall the auld Spooncreel
Clings closely tae the steeple’s shell;
The big Ha’ clock that’s kent sae weel,
There Jonnie Beaton rang the bell.
Red Lion Brae is just as steep,
John Knox Hoose is doon and gone,
The College whar the nobles sleep,
In their last rest, a’ skeleton.
Fairfowels pub has gone an’ a’,
The bug-dens that supported it,
The Manse Close disappeared lik snaw;
An’ tidy hames hae sorted it.
The Lorne has gone wi’ a’ it’s stink,
It’s twisted roof an’ jinglin’ doors,
The tan-holes filled up ower the brink,
Noo growin’ carrots neeps an’ flo’ers.
Pat’s corner hasna altered much,
The wee thack hoose has lang been gone,
The factories an’ the braes are such,
You couldna feed a sparrow on.
A big roon flo’er bed fills the site
The auld iron Pump yince stood upon,
But sentiment has taken flight,
And progress ever marches on.