In Praise of Balgeddie

I.
I sing of a spot,
Tho’ the warld knows it not,
And it’s nae great attraction to lord or to leddy;
There’s nae railway near it,
Nor devil hae ʼt to steer it –
It’s a canny country toun wi’ the name o’ Balgeddie.

(Chorus)
Set me at liberty, and let me gang,
On my ain shank’s-naig, or the back o’ a neddy;
I’ll never be mysel’, and I’ll never sing a sang
Till I see the sun sklent aff the ruifs o’ Balgeddie!

II.
It sleeps amang trees
To the bummin’ o’ its bees
Frae the sawin’ o’ the seed till the barley’s ready;
Then it waukens to a strife
For the dear staff o’ life,
An sleeps a’ the winter again, does Balgeddie.

III.
Wi’ the blue loch before it,
An the simmer bending o’er it,
An’ the Bishop hill ahint it, wi’ never a sheddie –
O whaur will ye find
Country quarters to your mind,
Or an auld cottar-toun wi a kirk, like Balgeddie?

IV.
Auld Reekie’s fu’ o’ stour,
An’ I’m deaved every hour
Frae the time I get up till I gang to my beddie:
But the loch’s cauler gleam,
I see it in my dream,
And I hear the bees bummin’ on the braes o’ Balgeddie.
…

(Chorus)
Set him at liberty, an’ let him gang,
On his ain shank’s-naig, or the back o’ a neddy;
He’ll never be himself’, and he’ll never sing a sang,
Till he tastes the barley-brew on the rigs o’ Balgeddie.