I have a dug-out br corrugated iron overhead br wire netting and sand bags for a bed br an empty bomb box for a table br for light a candle in a whisky bottle br and mud, mud, God, what mud! - in it, br outside it, all round it br br I have a picture in my dug-out br not much of a picture br one of Valentine's coloured post cards br but it's bonny, oh it's bonny br when I smoke my pipe and look at it br in fancy free I'm trudging br through the woods br among the bracken br along the granited roads br in the clean, snell air of a br Scottish morn br br It's just a broken old tree br mute symbol of our frailty br buffeted by many a storm br throned on a hill-top with silent courtiers br tall, feathery grasses bending before the wind br fleecy cloudlets scurrying along above br I smell the mud no longer br my lungs are filled with the wind br which blows o'er that wild upland br br There is a dark wood in my picture br and there I oft-times go br when the fir trees smell with sweetness after rain br brown bracken fringes the wood br and joyous, I plunge into it; br my clothes glistening with silvery cobwebs br as tho' adorned with gems of Araby. br There's a clearing in my wood br a dark, damp clearing br No! I won't think of it br it's too like Flanders to be wholesome br I always see the wooden crosses there br br Then I clamber to the hill-top br and stand amid the sweet smelling gorse br how wonderful, how beautiful! br The grey mists in the valley br the dusky purple of the heath-clad hills br br But out here br the landscape is no picture br it's an ugly travesty of Nature.