There is nary a tree where I do live
And highlands beyond are naked,
Yet all is green and all is grey.

If you listen a tad you will hear not,
But the race and howl of windy lot
And all is green and all is grey.

The glens are bare and now remote,
The narrow roads are but outlines,
Yet all is green, muted in throat.

Little boats are waiting in harbour,
The sea is a full glass of milky grey,
All is green, be glad, lass be gay.

And I breathe where I wait and live,
O mountains are snowy and grave,
Yet green, grey, all tarnish today.