An' drink o' springs that spait the creek
Maist to the logs.

He's but a bairn, atho'
He hunts the mountain's lonely bree,
His doggies' ears abune their brows wi' glee
He ties; he's but a bairn, atho'
He hunts the bree.

Fu' length they a' stretch out
Upon ae bink that green trees hap
In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles nap
Wi' een half shut, a stretchin' out
Whaur green trees hap.

And noo he fades awa'
Frae 'tween the twa--into the blue.
My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true
That he has gane for aye awa
Into the blue!

They are my laddie's hounds
That mak the hill at fa' o' day
Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say
_Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds_
_Till fa' o day?_


THE OLD HOUSE: KATHERINE TYNAN