For ye've crossed the brig to the fields o' life,
An' ye walk for iver there.

I traivel on to the brig-side,
Whaur ilka road maun cease,
My weary war may be lang to bide,
An' you hae won to peace.

There's ne'er a nicht but turns to day,
Nor a load that's niver cast;
An' there's nae wind cries on the winter brae,
But it spends itsel' at last.

O you that niver failed me yet,
Gin aince my step ye hear,
Come to yon brig atween us set,
An' bide till I win near!

O weel, aye, weel, ye'll ken my treid,
Ye'll seek nae word nor sign,
An' I'll no can fail at the Brig o' Dreid,
For yer hand will be in mine.




THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS


It was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin'