By Rachel S Robertson
|1.||There is wee place, it is scarcely a city,
Nor yet fat maist fowk wud be stylin' "a toon".
Tho' it neither can boast o' great grandeur nor beauty,
It's unco weel kent in the country aroon'.
Lat ye gang far ye will thro' oor ain bonnie Scotland,
An' mingle the greatest o' strangers amon',
It seems maist surprisin' hoo aft ye'll meet some ane,
Wha kens this or that o' sweet Foggieloan.
|5.||Nae doot when the natives o' Marnoch forgaither,
In cities far distant or some foreign clime,
They aften will speak o' the hame o' their childhood,
An' linger wi' joy o'er the happy auld time.
Tho' fair are the countries thro' which they may wonder,
Ae spot in their herts a warm corner will own,
An' aft they'll revisit in memory fondly,
The haunts that they played in near sweet Foggieloan.
|2.||An' harsh is the judgment that's aft passed upon it,
By those wha ken little aboot it, I ween,
They'd be better tae bide nearer hamewi' their bosoms,
An' see that they manage their ain doors tae clean.
They say that we bide at the "back o' the warld",
We hear a' sic jokes, yet we never lat on,
We are weel eneuch versed baith in kirk and State matters,
For bundles o' news come tae sweet Foggieloan.
|6.||But alas! in oor midst there is poortith and sickness,
Tho' we'd fain dee oor utmost sic ills tae relieve,
For cauld carle Winter, wi' storm an' wi' bluster,
Gars mony a peer body murmur an' grieve.
Oh! lat us be willin' to help those peer bodies,
There's Ane wha tak's tent o' a' kindness that's shown,
An' gin we be lookin' for objects o' pity,
Alas! there's ower mony in sweet Foggieloan.
|3.||An' some tak' their their joke ower oor foggy surroundin's,
But 'deed are we prood o' oor weel-stockit moss;
An'a weel-biggit stack in the en' o' the simmer,
Tae cotter or farmer is far frae a loss.
An' maybe gin those wha despise oor blue peat-reek,
Could sit when the winter win's whistle and moan,
Tae warm themsel's by oor bricht-blazing ingles,
They' reese oot the peat stacks o' sweet Foggieloan.
|7.||May the lads an' the lasses wha gae oot tae the warld,
Be strivin' to gain for themsel's a gweed name,
An' never forget the auld frien's left ahint them,
Nor yet cast a slur on their dear country hame.
May time in his march work improvements sae mony,
That, when bairnies tae men and tae women are grown,
We'll look on wi' wonder an' note a' the changes,
An' gladly cry, "Well done oor sweet Foggieloan".
|4.||In simmer when breezes blaw saftly frae Cranna,
An' ahint the Knock redly the fair sun sinks doon,
We can hear i' the distance the sough o' the Deveron,
As we mark a' the beauties o' nature aroon'.
Near Auchintoul's ha' the green woodlands are wavin',
Whaur birds twitter sweetly the tall trees upon,
An' wildfloors are scentin' the breath o' the gloamin',
As nicht faulds her mantle roon' sweet Foggieloan.
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From the book of songs and poems, 'On Bogie's Banks and Bonnie Deveronside'