A poem, written by William Stewart, Drummellan Street, Maybole in the year 1907.
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1. I'm leaving the land of my birth today,
To seek a new home in a land far away,
And now when the time comes to say goodbye,
The gathering tears be-dim mine eye,
And a feeling of sadness my bosom fills,
As I bid adieu to the Carrick Hills.
2. I stand 'neath the Runnels's leafy shade,Where oft in boy-hoods days I've played,
To take one long last look around,
At the straggling form of Maybole town.
The woods so green and the valley's wide,
Shut in by the hills on every side.
3. The birds are singing their morning song,Down by Kilhenzie's wood and holm,
And green is each wood, each glen and mire,
Twixt the Burning hills and Culdoon's lone spire,
And past the shoulder of Knockbrake,
Is seen Balterson's ruined shape.
4. There Mochrum rears his head with pride,And looks far o'er the Firth of Clyde,
Above the town the broad low moor,
Sees the fishermen sail out from Dunure.
Brown Carrick rising from banks o' Doon,
Commands a view of Ayr's auld toon.
5. We've searched the woods, the glens and braes,
To find the berries, scribes and slaes,
And many a pillow-slip we'd fill,
Twixt Crawfordson glen and Guiltreehill,
And when the night in darkness set,
We drew the lea fields with partridge net.
6. Over Benquhat in the eastern sky,
The summer sun is mounting high,
The morning mist his beams have spent,
Which hang round Straiton monument,
Raised to the memory 0' Blairquhan,
Who fought and fell at Inkerman.
7. There standing in front is Cienalla fell,
Whose sheep clad slopes I love so well,
Behind, where the burn winds in and out,
I've spent happy days with the wily trout,
Or searching the meadows of Ralbeg,
In quest of whaup and peesie's egg.
8.Through yonder pass with noisy din,
The Girvan comes rushing from Tairlaw Linn,
Loch Lure, Loch Braden and Girvan Rye,
It's clear and limped streams supply,
These lovely lochs lie calm and still,
Reflecting back each heather hill.
9. Shalloch-on-Minnoch, Carrick's King,
From his broad base the rivers spring,
The Doon, the Cree and the Girvan fair,
Each in his narrow streamlets share,
And the Stinchar starts on his lonely way,
And seeks the sea at Ballantrae.
10. Those lonely hills have heard the chant,
Of the men who stood for the Covenant,
In those stirring times of religious strife,
When, to own your faith was to risk your life,
Those hunted men did refuge seek,
Among the hills so wild and bleak.
11. Farewell, my native hills, farewell,
I'll still remain beneath thy spell,
Though I should lie on a foreign shore,
And hear Niagara's thunderous roar,
Each wooded vale and hillside steep,
Is planted in my memory deep.