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. ©