Beyond the seas, on a faraway isle,
A maid is waiting, true without guile,
Her faith, stands of stones and trees,
A winsome heart as lone capercaillie,
With a look she prays into the wind,
Longing where true love only begins,
Butterflies flutter with a heart racing,
A diary is kept under ravens tracing,
The elm and oaks are alms she stirs,
Splints and potions are makes of her,
How much time is passing of redress,
To maid of the glens, all forgetfulness,
She breaks and cries, pleads to a sun,
Calling like an angel, into the heavens,
New days come with a cold shudder,
Lost days run in trains, out to another,
She braces in corners for O solidarity,
Wee birds singing with hopes in fealty.
An wonders awake, dreams each morn,
When will love ringing come into dawn?
Capercaillie,
Scottish term for a showy kind of grouse.