Quean for a day, we’ve dicht yer croon

wi blossom frae the hawthorn tree,

an led ye thro oor mithers’ toun

tae shaw the warld hoo braw we be.

Lang winter past, the plantin by,

the corn loups green aneath the sun,

an owre its mirror o the sky

wind-ripple crosses lik a haun.

An in the coorsin o oor daunce

ye staun the stillness o its ee,

the rood roon whilk oor ribands chaunce,

oor steid o youth an strength tae be.

Heich grow the birks on Knock’s lee-brae,

the gowans blink the wuids lik queans,

the hoggs an stirks are freithin tae,

an pyats flird abune Crosscryne.

O Maid o us, we coort ye pey

tae celebrate oor wauk’nin sels,

the furthwart times tae sanctify,

in this the dawin o oor spails.