The De Vinne Press

To my Father

You called the old farm Bramble Brae, And loved it till your hair was gray And footsteps faltered while you trod The sloping upland bright with sod. It blossomed in your quiet life With gowans from the Neuk of Fife; And while you walked the waving wheat You dreamed of heather and the peat. You’ve gane awa! My spirit yearns To hear you read the songs of Burns; The melody I’ve faintly caught Is just the lesson that you taught. If any hear your gentle voice In verse of mine, then I’ll rejoice And sing along my stumbling way, “He’s home again in Bramble Brae!”