That ill-faur'd lump of mossy stane
Has lain amang the breckans lane,
And neither groan'd nor made a mane,
For years six thousand!
That's fortitude — the stoics gane
Wod wagg'd their pows on't!

The heather-blossom fades awa' —
The breathing winds of summer blaw —
The plover's wail — the muircock's craw —
I'll lay a bodle,
It snoozes on through rain and snaw,
Nor fykes its noddle!

It's pleasant wi' a stane to crack,
It ne'er objects to word or fact;
And then they ha'e an unco knack
Of listening well —
They a' the story dinna tak'
Upo' themsel'.

Aweel, whunstane! since there ye lay,
The world's gane monie an unco way —
We've a' been heathens — now we pray,
And sing and wheeple,
And mak' a lang to do and say
Beside the steeple!

And there cam' men o' meikle power,
Wha gart the frighted nations glowr,
And did wi' swords mankind devour:
Snoozed ye through all? —
Faith! ye think little of a stour,
Upon my saul!

Stane! if your lugs could better hear,
I doubt me if't wad mend your cheer
If ye but kent — I fear, I fear —
That sorrow's round ye;
Though hard as tyrants' hearts, fu' sair
The tale wad wound ye!

How priests, and kings, and superstition,
Have marr'd and ruin'd man's condition,
If I could tell, ye'd need a sneeshin'
To clear your een:
Lord, stane! but they deserve the creeshin'
They'll get, I ween!

Look, there's the sun! the lambkins loupin'
Are o'er amang the heather coupin'
The corbies 'mang the rocks are roupin'
Sae dull and drowsy;
This summer day, my cracks, I'm houpin'
To life will rouse ye!

Na, there ye lie — nought troubles thee:
Ye hae some use as well as me,
Nae doubt; but what that use can be
The thought doth wrack me;
Wi' a' my een I canna see,
The devil tak' me!

I'm sure there's naething made in vain —
No even a mossy auld whunstane:
Ye powers aboon! I ken, I ken —
Auld stane sae bonnie,
Ye just was made that I fu' fain
Might rhyme upon ye.