Kamaskera Hermit And Sparrows The Stag Version

Snaw on the peaks, cauld in the glen,
Hermit by the fireside coontin wee brown hens—
No hens ava, but spuggies fine,
Sixty souls in a row on the feedin line.

The winter cam ower-sharp this year,
Wi the frost like glass on the windae clear.
The burn lay still, the track was deid,
Naethin moved but the smoke overhead.
High in a howe whaur the snaw gangs deep,
Auld hermit keepit his fire an sleep.
But oot by the eaves in a flurry o wings,
Wee sparras plotted grand wee things.

They drappit doon frae the bitter blue,
"We’re freezin, man, what will we do?"
They chittered, "See yon licht sae warm?
Yon must be a hermit’s storm."
They queued in rows on the broom an stone,
Like weary travellers wantin a phone.
Mair nor three-score, plus twa or three,
Aw shooglin tails in a snawy tree.

Oh the spuggies at the hermit’s door,
Cheepin, "Feed us, just once more!"
He gies them crumbs, they sing wi glee—
Best wee choir in the snowy lea.

The hermit glowered through steam an crack,
"Wha filled ma porch wi a feathert pack?
I’ve oats for parritch, nuts for me,
No a seed’s left for a spuggie spree!"
But still they bobbed wi their button een,
Like wee wee monks in a frosty scene.
He sighed, "Ach weel, ye’ve won, nae doot,"
An shook the loaf to shake crumbs oot.

Oh the spuggies at the hermit’s door,
Cheepin, "Feed us, just once more!"
He gies them crumbs, they sing wi glee—
Best wee choir in the snowy lea.

Noo every storm that roars the brae,
They ken the road, they find the way.
The world’s a cauld and wild big hill,
But there’s a window shinin still.
For a hert that’s lone in the winter cauld,
A flock o spuggies is guid as gowd.
They pay their rent in sangs sae braw,
An keep the hermit frae turnin raw.

Oh the spuggies at the hermit’s door,
Cheepin, "Feed us, just once more!"
He gies them crumbs, they sing wi glee—
Best wee choir in the snowy lea.

So if ye’re lost in the mountain snaw,
Mind on the spuggies an dinna thaw.
Find ye a licht in the howe somewhaur,
An share yer crumbs, if ye’ve ony spare.
Mia hums "ah", Lora lauchs low—
Sixty spuggies swingin in the glow.
High in the valley, snug an bright,
They’ve turned a hard frost into licht.