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'Midst the mountains
brown nigh to Paisley town and close to the Tattiehaw,
By the long lochside,
where the bog streams glide,
lies the farm of Picketlaw.
***
There is many a nice and cosy spot twixt
mearns and the sea,
There are some of them that i know not, and some that are
known to me,
But this i say, should i pass that way and view them one
and a' .
There is not a spot amongst the lot like the farm of Picketlaw.
***
Away to the east , neither last or least,
lies the farm of Driffenberg,
Where the black -faced sheep roams the hills so steep, and
the moorfowl lays her egg.
As a moorland place it has charm and grace,
But it can't compare at a' with the place to the west
that i love best the farm of Picketlaw
***
When the balmy breeze soughs through the
trees in the rosy month of June,
This snug retreat is hard to beat either morning, night
or noon.
On the summer days when the heat wave's haze
makes your vision grow dim and sma' stretching fair and
free,
you can always the farm of Picketlaw.
***
In this month of May, when the larks sing
gay,
and the days are long and fair. the dark brown peat to mould
complete,
You can always find me there,
When my work is done and the evening sun makes everthing
look braw,
I am always glad when I foot the pad to the farm of Picketlaw.
***
'tis with regret on my way I get when my
contract job is done,
and the serried rows of the moulded peat lie toasting in
the sun,
Then oftentimes my thought will stray when i am far awa'
To the happy days I have often spent on the farm of Picketlaw
***
There the weary pilgrim wends his way, and is aye a welcome guest;
There he is sure to find good friends and kind with refreshment,
peace and rest. Then his hopes soar high as he draws nigh,
when the night is cold and raw, for he feels secure,
theres a refuge sure at the farm of picketlaw.
***
When the wind blows cold o'er wood and wold
O'er hill and dreary moor,
Though it rains or snows the traveller knows of at least
an open door,
and from this abode,
when he takes the road, if has got a heart at a' ,
He must surely know say as he goes his way,
God Bless you, Picketlaw.
***
Written by S Morrison, High Street, Neilston.
One penny each
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