FRAE Kenmore to Ben More The land is a' the Marquises'; The mossy howes, the heathery knowes An' ilka bonnie park is his; The bearded goats, the towsie stots An' a' the braxie carcasses; Ilk crofter's rent, ilk tinkler's tent An' ilka collie's bark is his; The muircock's craw, the piper's blaw. The ghillie's hard day's wark is his, Frae Kenmore to Ben More The warld is a' the Marquises'!
The fish that swim, the birds that skim, The fir, the ash, the birk is his; The castle ha', sae big an' braw. Yon diamond-crusted durk is his; The roofless hame,—a burning shame, The factor's dirty wark is his; The poor fowk vexed, the lawyer's text, Yon smirkin' legal shark is his; Frae Kenmore to Ben More The warld is a' the Marquises'!
But near, mair near, God's voice we hear— The dawn as weel's the dark is His. The poet's dream, the patriot's theme, The fire that lights the mirk is His; They clearly show God's mills are slow But sure the handiwark is His; And in His grace our hope we place. Fair Freedom's sheltering ark is His. The men that toil should own the soil— A note as clear's the lark's is this— Breadalbane's land—the fair, the grand— Will no' be aye the Marquises'!