This text comes from The Bennachie Budget, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Aberdeenshire, height an’ hallow,
Needs a fouth o farmin’brain;
Here the soil is deep—there shallow—
This cries trench, an’ that cries drain.
Yet, when Harvest waves her tresses,
Scatt’rin’ gowd o’er Gerrie’s lands,
Aberdeen the prospect blesses—
There her well-pang'd Girnal stands!
Wonderfu’ the change on Buchan,
Since the fires in Bruce’s day!
Slowly grew the tree an’ clachan,
Marking Labour’s toilsome way.
Farms extended-rents were doubled—
Planting rose in stately ranks;
Till the game, in funz untroubled,
Swarmed in hills an’ sandy banks.
First the land was let for labour,
Then the same was let for game,
Till this “begg’rin’ o’ my neighbour”
Gart Conservatives cry “shame!”
Farmers aft to London trudgin’,
Cried—“Preserve us frae this game!”
But the Culprits ruled the judgin’,
And ignored the Plaintiffs’ claim.
Aberdeenshire donned her armour,
Would not stand outside the door;
Boldly sent a Tenant-Farmer,
Rousing Justice from her snore.
But the man who once had furrowed
Reeskie rig for seanty braird,
Bought the land he sowed an’ harrowed,
So the Tenant turned a Laird,
Must our rights fa’ wi’ the tiller,
And our prospects end in fog?
Must our hopes o’ vested siller
Sink like spunkie i’ the bog?
Mars rushed frae the braes o’ Learny,
Esculapius Finzean plied;
But a cry frae Mar to Cairnie
Bade the gallant Gordon guide!
Douglas Gordon yet is youthfu’,
But that fault will daily mend;
Like the Gordons, wise and truthfu',
May their God his footsteps fend!
May his course be long and steady,
Brightly blow the buds of youth;
Thro' life's stream, may turbid eddy
Ne'er betray a stilled truth!