This text comes from The Bennachie Budget, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
At Vict’lers’ feast, o’er sparklin’ glass,
Lord Huntly, thanks expressin’,
Declared, that the workin’ class
In Publics found a Blessin’!
In smoky toun, or valley green,
When stent or tax is pressin’,
Where could the sons o’ toil convene,
If nae in Huntly’s Blessin’?
There wages they discuss an’ spend,
Tho’ drink is trade depressin;
Then give their wives, their fare to mend,
A kick frae Huntly’s Blessin’?
In filth an rags their offspring slouch,
The neighbours sair oppressin’;
While fathers fill the tapster’s pouch,
For waughts in Huntly’s Blessin’?
Tho’ Boards may big an’ garnish schools,
The sober folk assessin’;
Yet drunkards bairns will stand like snools
Depraved thro’ Huntly’s Blessin’?
The Preacher warns, an fervent prays,
The nation’s sins confessin’;
But tipplers scorn his sober says,
Inspired by Huntly’s Blessin’?
Young men an' maids, thro’ a’ the land,
Are Hymen’s torch depressin’;
But drink an' dance go hand in hand,
Wi’ shouts in Huntly’s Blessin’?.
All Publicans, that favoured race,
Their grateful hearts expressin’,
On signs portray his Lordship’s face,
Inscribed wi’ Huntly’s Blessin’?
There crouse the Northern Cock may craw
The midden-tap possessin';
Frae Pentlan’ Firth to Gallowa’,
Proclaimin' Huntly’s Blessin’?
Yes; far an’ near, ’mong rich an’ poor,
Development’s progressin’;
An’ meu for care may find a cure—
But nae in Huntly’s Blessin’.