for the folk of Tarland, Coull and Migvie
Spring in Cromar is an open yett,
Wi the heich rigs turned an black,
For the creepy-crawly tractor climms
Frae the ploo-cuts at its back.
The meltin muir is rinnin weet,
A hare in an ermine coat;
An Lochnagar, thro the pearlin sleet,
Is the glimsk o a winter stoat.
The puddock’s eggs are preen-prick-sma,
An deid-wid-dry’s the breem;
Far the corbies craw b’ the peat-reet-wa
Is the tod wi the sleekit een.
The kinnel’t whin is a coorse carlin,
Wi her lang hair flamin reid –
An the racin rick, that’s furlin thick,
Is the mane o her elfin steed.
Spring in Cromar – snaw, sun, an rain –
It’s the sweet in the wid-wasp’s byke;
For there’s aye a sting in a Nor’east spring –
Wild-cat, wi its teeth bared fite!