Who goes there ? God knows. I'm nobody. How should I answer? Can't jump over a gate nor run across the meadow. I'm but an old white-beard of inane identity. Pass on ! What's left to-day will very soon be ?

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

A wind got up frae affa the sea,
It blew the stars as clear's could be,
It blew in the een of a 'O' the three,
An'the mune was shinin' clearly !