He did not know its name — he knew the star,
Its comings and its goings in the sky;
And reckoned it should rise above Ern Scar,
Ere he should die.

Stripped by the years as a wind-whittled thorn,
The last survivor of the lusty quick,
In his lone cottage, where he lived forlorn,
He'd fallen sick —

He'd fallen sick; and knew his end was nigh;
But little cared, if he might live to see
The star once more into that patch of sky
Soar radiantly.

Life only in his eyes, he watched the pane
That framed the crag-head, under the low thatch,
Deaf to the squally gusts that now again
Rattled the latch.

Punctual, his faithful friend swung o'er the Scar:
His dim eyes kindled greeting — then, as the light
Left them for ever, in high heaven his star
Burned yet more bright.