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
