Alone he sat under the pine,
Slowly was his demeanor
Although his stillness belied his nature,
His cold eyes said not he was a dreamer.
The rain fell and the day turned dark,
But still the traveler stayed,
For lost love and haunted memory,
Around him, the shadows bayed.
Through the Highlands and the Islands,
The weary, misty morns
He had searched and he had bled
All for his maid’s touch torn.
He sat under the pine,
With his slow demeanor
And though his stillness belied his nature,
His cold eyes spoke of a long-lost dreamer.
But fear not, ye weary traveler,
Even Scottish clouds have linings
And here she waits yet for you,
Heart lost with cold beguiling.