IAM sickened of the south and the kindness of the downs,
And the weald that is a garden all the day,
And I'm weary for the islands and the Scuir that always frowns,
And the sun rising over Mallaig Bay.
I am sickened of the pleasant down and pleasant weald below,
And the meadows where the little breezes play.
And Fm weary for rain-cloud over stormy Coolin's brow,
And the wind blowing into Mallaig Bay.
I am sickened of the people that have ease in what they earn,
The happy folk who have forgot to pray,
And I'm weary for the faces that are sorrowful and stem,
And the boats coming into Mallaig Bay.