Be the bramble in the berry,
Or be it in the flower, —
Or be it bare of leaf and bud
Waved by the winter shower;
That creeping bush that lowly is,
As lowly well can be,
It hath a charm — a history —
A tale that pleases me!

When black grew bramble-berries,
Some twenty years ago,
The dawning often saw us set
Where mountain waters flow;
And when the gruesome gloaming came
To keek into our creel,
It found a fouth o' spotted trout
Whilk we had tackled weel!

The bramble-berries were our food,
And water was our wine,
The linnet to the self-same bush
Came after us to dine.
As down the glen at e'en we gaed,
The lammies round us bleated,
And we, wi' blithesome hearts, their word
To ilka rock repeated!

And when awa we used to gang
By fieldpaths green and lane,
The bramble flower'd beside our feet,
And mantled tree and stane;
And wi the hedgerow, oak, and thorn,
Its branches twisted were,
That scarcely through the wall of leaves,
Could breathe the caller air!

Then the bramble-berry black,
Or be it in the flower,
I love its humble lowliness,
For sake o' days run ower;
And grow it in the woods sae green,
Or grow it on the brae,
I like to meet the bramble bush
Where'er my footsteps gae!