A Scottish Migrant

He has lived in Australia for thirty five years And for Scotland his old Homeland he has no more tears He will never again climb the steep heather hill Or hear the babble of the silver tongued rill That flows from the lake where grass to bracken yield By ditches and wildwoods and through many a field And rough and damp moorland where rank rushes grow On to the big river it ever does flow In his fifty fifth year his once brown hair silver gray One might say of him he has known a better day Thirty two years married to his Aussie wife she's my soulmate he does say And their only child a son his daughter will be seven in May And though he may never see his old Homeland again The accent of Scotland with him does remain.