The Doo'ucot Up The Braes

    Beside the doo’cot up the braes
        The fields slope doon frae me,
    An fine’s the glint on blawin’ days
        O’ the bonnie plains o’ sea.

    Below’s my mither’s hoosie sma’,
        The smiddy by the byre
    Whaur aye my feyther dings awa’
        And my brither blaws the fire.

    For Lachlan lo’es the smiddy’s reek,
        An’ Geordie’s but a fule
    Wha’ drives the plough his breid to seek,
        And Rob’s to teach the schule;

    He’ll haver roond the schulehoose wa’s,
        And ring the schulehoose bell,
    He’ll skelp the scholars wi’ the tawse
        (I’d like that fine mysel’!)

    They’re easy pleased, my brithers three –
        I hate the smiddy’s lowe,
    A weary dominie I’d be,
        An’ I canna thole the plough.

    But by the doo’cot up the braes
        There’s nane frae me can steal
    The blue sea an’ the ocean haze
        An’ the ships I like sae weel.

    The brigs ride oot past Ferryden
        Ahint the girnin’ tugs,
    And the lasses wave to the Baltic men
        Wi’ the gowd rings i’ their lugs.

    My mither’s sweir to let me gang.
        My feyther gi’es me blame,
    But youth is sair and life is lang
        When yer he’rt’s sae far frae hame.

    But i’ the doo’cot up the braes,
        When a’tumn nichts are mirk,
    I’ve hid my pennies an’ my claes
        An’ the Buik I read at kirk,

    An’ come ae nicht when a’ fowks sleep,
        I’ll lift them whaur they lie,
    An’ to the harbour-side I’ll creep
        I’ the dim licht o’ the sky;

    An’ when the eastern blink grows wide,
        An’ dark still smoors the west,
    A Baltic brig will tak’ the tide
        Wi’ a lad that canna rest!