Wynter's Eyn

Oor countra's licht
is hoddit ablow
a daurk clood.

Noo a blatter o rain,
waashes awa
hert-sair tears

as the pouers o yon
wandocht rowlers
we nae-langer need

huilly dwyne,

but aye they gresp,
claucht – brod
in a hinnermaist

howp tae thorter
an taigle a
hail naition's saul.

But Scots will nae mair
fa fool o yon
English swickerie.

O Scotland, ye'r at the enrig

the pleuch is turnt
ye'll suin see oot this
fashious pousker –

noo the simmer cams
rowst that weel kent cry:
"Wha daur meddle wi me!"

© Joe Murray 2021