At Portmary

At Portmary

Lassie wi’ the lang e’en
What garred ye gang sic a gait?
To come fleein’ wild ower the cauld moss
To sic an ill fate?

What garred ye lippen on bounty
Frae yon black-hertit queen?
Peety there’s nane in yon prood face
Wi’ its cauld gled’s e’en.

O lassie wi’ the lang e’en,
Better if Solway’s sea
Had row’d ye ower and happit ye bein
To a’ eternity.

D.M.P. ©