There lived a wee bear by a heather clad brae,
Where the mist came drifting at break o’ the day.
Where the burn ran silver by rowan and pine,
And the hills wore the heather like tartan sae fine.
He’d a wee leather bag wi’ a buckle o’ brass,
A spoon in the lining, a stone from the grass,
A button, a picture, a thread tied in blue,
And a wee wooden bird that his mither once knew.
Then the weather turned black, and the cold wind blew,
And the road by his doorway was no road he knew.
He stood at the threshold till nicht had grown deep,
While the rain on the roof made a hard little leap.
“Whaur are ye gaun?” cried the folk in the town.
The bear tied his bundle and slowly looked down.
“I’d stay if I could. But I cannae stay here.
So I’ll follow the road, though I ken it’s a fear.”
He walked by the moon and he walked by the star,
He walked till the hills were behind him and far.
Through forest and field, over stone, over stream,
He followed the road as ye follow a dream.
At last he arrived at a shore in the rain,
And watched the grey sea slap hard at the chain.
There wisnae a bridge, and there wisnae a road,
And his wee heavy bag felt a terrible load.
Then oot o’ the haar came a boat on the tide,
With an auld sailor standing and pulling the guide.
“Whaur are ye bound, bear?” The bear didnae speak.
He stared at the water, all steel grey and bleak.
Then softly he answered,
“Somewhere I can stay.”
The sailor said, “Aye, then.
We’ll set sail for the day.”
They sailed up the coast while the gulls cried a tune,
And the black sea rolled underneath a pale moon.
The bear held his bag while the boat pitched and rolled,
And he sang a wee song that he’d sung young and old.
“Row, row, boatie, row ower the sea,
Carry my bundle, carry me.”
“Far frae the hills and far frae my door,
To somewhere. A place I’ve not seen before.”
Then morning came pale, and the rain started fine,
And dark rocky islands rose out of the brine.
There were cliffs in the distance and hills in the mist,
And the bear watched the shore with his clawed clenched fist.
They came tae a harbour.
The boat touched the quay.
The bear stepped ashore.
And Scotland lay grey.
There were gulls on the rooftops and rain on the stone,
A kirk on the hill and a town of its own.
There were chimneys, and windows, and washing on lines,
And a man selling papers beside the old signs.
A laddie walked past and he looked at the bear.
“Ye’re no frae here.” “No,” said the bear.
A woman beside him looked hard for a while.
Then smiled at the bear with a wee crooked smile.
“Ye’ll get wet,” she said. “I already am.”
“Well, come out o’ the rain then, bear ya bam.”
So up the wet road with his wee bag he skipped,
Through closes and gardens and houses o’ brick,
A door opened wide, by a stranger who cared,
This face in the dark said “Dinnae stand there!”
The bear froze by fear asked “Is this welcome for me?”
She nods and he enters, slow as could be.
There wis soup on the stove and a fire burning red,
A chair by the table and a roof owerhead.
The bear sat, and they gave him some bread,
And asked him his name as they poured him his tea.
But nobody laughed when he said it aloud.
Nobody told him he shouldn’t be proud.
They only said, “Och, that’s a fine name indeed,”
And gave him another bit bread if he’d need.
The days came and went like wee boats on the rain.
He learned all the streets and the names of the lanes.
And learned that the weather could change in a breath,
And that bairns still played when the rain soaked them wet.
He learned what a ceilidh was meant to be,
And sussed how the kettle always made tea,
He learned that a hoose could be noisy and bright,
And that folk sometimes sang just because it felt right.
But under his bed, in his wee leather case,
There still lay the things from his first resting place.
The picture. The button. A stone and a spoon.
The wee wooden bird and its faded blue tune.
Some nights, when the house was asleep in the dark,
He thought of the hills and the river and lark.
He’d whisper the names of the places he’d known,
And wonder if folk lived in two hooses of stone.
One night the wee girl who had given him bread
Discovered him downstairs, and found him in dread.
She asked, “Do ye miss it?” “Aye,” said the bear.
“Do ye want tae go back?” He looked at his chair.
“Aye.” So she asked him, “Then why are ye here?”
The bear had remembered. Reliving the fear.
The girl sat beside him. The fire burned low.
And neither had words for the things they both know.
For a road can be left, but it’s never quite gone.
And a heart can remember the place it came from.
And a bear can sail seas and still be the same.
A new bit of ground doesna wipe out a name.
So if ye see him out on a cold Highland morn,
With his old leather bag and his coat slightly worn,
Don’t ask first what road brought him over the sea.
Just say, “Mornin’, Bear.” And let the bear be.
For Scotland is built from auld bears who came through,
From old songs and new ones, from strange and from true.
A country is more than the place where ye start.
For home is a country, sometimes it’s a heart.
And sometimes a bear, wi’ a bag in his paw,
Comes over the water to find what he saw.
Not gold. Not glory. Or castles or fame.
Just somewhere tae sit when the rain comes again.
The Bear That Came Tae Scotland (Ⓒ J.P. 2026)
Click for more compositions.
PS. We’ll never know the bears name as it’s unpronounceable in human.
