Spring in Cromar is an open yett,
Wi the heich rigs turned an black,
Whaur the creepie-crawlie 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,
Whaur 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!