Ye’d think it had naewhaur tae gang

the wey it daunners roon the kintrae,

turnin doon ev’ry wee dip in the land

tae tak a look.

Some buddy must hae bin the furst

tae get intae the habit o gaun

this wey an weerin a path in the turf

atween thir hills.

Aa A can say is he cudnae

hae bin in a hurry, no lik thon craw

that flees straucht as an arra tae its next

bit o business.

Or mebbe nae buddy made it.

Mebbe it juist grew lik some muckle

gemm o doat-tae-doat that jined the biggins,

networkin fowk

Sic are the threids that shew neibours

oot o ithers, freens oot o strangers,

thir rid roads o Lanarkshire that criss-cross

the land lik veins.