| This darksome burn, horseback brown, | |
| His rollrock highroad roaring down, | |
| In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam | |
| Flutes and low to the lake falls home. | |
| | |
| A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth | 5 |
| Turns and twindles over the broth | |
| Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning, | |
| It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning. | |
| | |
| | |
| Degged with dew, dappled with dew, | |
| Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, | 10 |
| Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, | |
| And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn. | |
| | |
| What would the world be, once bereft | |
| Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, | |
| O let them be left, wildness and wet; | 15 |
| Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet. | |
