they are my laddie’s hounds
That rin the wood at brak o’ day.
Wha is it taks them hence? Can ony say
Wha is it taks my laddie’s hounds
At brak o’ day?
They cleek aff thegither,
An’ then fa’ back, wi’ room atween
For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen
The baith cleek aff thegither
Wi’ ane atween!
When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces,
The mother of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
And the brown bright nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces;
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
...
