[Written for and sung at the Annual Ploughing Match of the New Monkland Farmers' Society, 1818.] Air - ` The Thistle o' Scotland." O, mony's the cauld frost an' thow we ha'e had, An' lang our high mountains wi' snaw ha'e been clad, While our lochs an' our burnies were a' tum'lin' fu'; But Winter's gaun aff wi' the tear in his e'e, An' spring is returnin' tae sport o'er the lea The sun is extendin' his course in the south, Auld Nature again is renewin' her youth, An' the merry young farmer's wan oot wi' his pleugh. The brave hardy merchant may skim o'er the tide For silks an' fine toys to amuse little pride, An' for delicate dishes an' liquors aneuch Yet naething becomes a true Scotchman sae weel, As a guid plaidin' coat, an' a cake o' aitmeal, His favourite dram frae Sir John Barleycorn, As blithe as the lav'rock he'll start in the morn, An' brave the cauld blast as he follows the pleugh. The trav'ller may tell the discov'ries he's made, The sodger may boast o'er the bluid he has shed. Wi' the laurels o' vict'ry encirclin' his brow Our tars are the bravest an' best on the sea, Our craftsmen are cunnin', our peasantry free; But grandeur and science wad soon gae tae wrack, E'en brave independence wad faint an' fa' back, If the farmer neglected his cattle an' pleugh. Auld Scotlan' attends tae her sons wi' a smile, Tae see them unite in improvin' her soil, An' in buskin' her knowes in a comlier hue. Let ilka guid fallow tak' haud o' his gless, Tae wish the brave farmer guid health an' success May discord gae dumb, an' sweet harmony sing. The merry young farmer, an' lang live the King. " Auld Scotlan' for ever, an' speed tae her pleugh. "
The Village of Chryston - North Lanarkshire - Scotland
Walter Watson
The Chryston Poet