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.