A' Nature lay dead, save the cauld whistlin' blast
That chilled the bleak earth to the core as it passed,
And heaved in high ridges the thick chokin' drift
That cam in wreathed swirls frae the white marled lift,
And winter's wild war, wearied baith heart and ee,
As we warsled richt sair ower the drear muirland lea,
And our feet skyted back on the road freezing hard,
As we wended our way to the Snawy Kirkyard.

O! snelly the hail smote the skeleton trees
That shivering shrunk in the grasp o' the breeze,
Nor birdie, nor beast, could the watery ee scan,
A' were cowerin' in corners, save grief-laden man;
Tho' the heart may be broken, the best maun be spared
To mak up a wreath in the Snawy Kirkyard.

The wee Muirland Kirk, whar the pure Word o' God
Mak's warm the cauld heart, and mak's light the lang road,
The slee hill-side yill-house, whaur lasses meet lads,
Whaur herds leave their collies, and lairds tie their yauds,
Kirk-bell and house riggin', the white drift has squared,
But there's ae yawning grave in the Snawy Kirkyard.

Through a' the hale parish, nae Elder was known
That was likit by a' like my grandfather John,
And drear was that day when we bore him awa',
Wi' his gowd stores o' thought, and his haffits o' snaw;
I was then a wee callant, rose-cheek'd and gowd-hair'd,
When I laid his auld pow in the Snawy Kirkyard.

And aye when I think on thae times lang gane by,
Saft thoughts soothe my soul, and sweet tears dim my eye,
And I see the auld man, as he clapp'd my wee head,
While a sigh heaved his breast, for my faither lang dead;
He nursed me, he schooled me, — how can I regard
But wi' warm-gushing heart tears, a Snawy Kirkyard?

In soothing sad sorrow, in calming mad mirth,
His breath, like the south wind, strewed balm ower the earth,
And weary souls laden wi' grief aft were driven
To seek comfort frae him, wha aye led them to Heaven,
O! sweet were the seeds sown, and rich was the braird
That sprung frae that stock in the Snawy Kirkyard.

Now age wi' his hoar-frost has crispit my pow,
And my locks, ance sae gowden, are silvery now,
And tho' I hae neither high station nor power,
I hae health for my portion, and truth for my dower,
And my hand hath been open, my heart hath been free,
To dry up the tear-draps frae sorrow's dull ee,
And mony puir bodies my awmrie hae shared,
'Twas my counsel frae him in the Snawy Kirkyard.