I see my childish yesterdays
wi’ een noo auld and sad –
The Sma’ Glen in her autumn claes
o' green and russet plaid,
The Almond’s flow by Amulree
the trout that cheats the hook,
The dun atop o’ Milquhanzie –
in memory’s sketchbook.
How is that wain in wellingtons
intae a woman grown,
Wha saw the silver skeletons
o’ birks by winter blown?
How does that reid-clad, peerie lass
wear green and brown o' age?
A’Mhairi bheag, a’ things maun pass –
move on, and turn the page.












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