There’s no a clood in the sky,
The hill’s clear as can be,
An’ the broon road’s windin’ ower it,
But – no for me!
It’s June, wi’ a splurge o’ colour
In glen an’ on hill,
An’ it’s me wad be lyin’ up yonner,
But then – there’s the schule.

There’s a wude wi’ a burn rinnin’ through it,
Caller an’ cool,
Whaur the sun splashes licht on the bracken
An’ dapples the pool.

There’s a sang in the soon’ o’ the watter,
Sang sighs in the air,
An’ the worl’ disnae maitter a docken
To yin that’s up there.

A hop an’ a step frae the windie,
Just fower mile awa,
An’ I could be lyin’ there thinkin’
O’ naething ava’.

Ay! – the schule is a winnerfu’ place,
Gin ye tak it a’ roon,
An’ I’ve no objection to lessons,
Whiles – but in June?