Inversnaid

This darksome burn, horseback brown,

His rollrock highroad roaring down,

In coop and in comb the fleece of his

Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of

Turns and twindles over the

Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,

It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew,

Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,

Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,

And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once

Of wet and wildness?

Let them be left,

O let them be left, wildness and wet;

Long live the weeds and the wilderness - hill