I’ll sing a song o’ Stromness, and the district round aboot,
Where a’ the wealthy fairmers stay, the fairmers o’ repute,
The men who wear the swanky suits and lovely velour hats,
Who drive aroond in motor cars, that purr like gibby cats.

We’ll start wi’ Mr Sidney Young, the millionaire frae Croval,
At managing a dairy herd, he’s reached the highest level,
And Arthur feeds the dairy coos, he fairly kens the ropes,
He’s even gotten whisky, by feeding malt and hops.

And there’s the man o’ Newhall fairm, his wealth ye’d never guess,
For he’s the man who keeps the fancy coloured kiddy baas,
At rearing Leicester sheep he is a very clever fellow,
He feeds the rams on oranges and maks their fleeces yellow.

And ye a’ ken Dicky Bremner and his famous Cheviot yowe,
That whacked the champion mare and coo and nearly caused a row,
He lives awa at Mousland fairm an airy kind o’ place,
But different folk hiv telt me hid’s the only heir he hais.

And there’s Willie Bews o’ Mayfield, he is always in the news,
He’s cleaning up a fortune wi’ his sheep and hens and soos,
A mighty man at concrete wark and other fancy crafts,
He also has a medal that he got for playing draughts.

And Redland is the dairy ferm where Mr Aitken stays,
The big hearted little fellow with the unassuming ways,
At showing Clydesdale horses he has always done his pairt,
And faith, a bonnie Clydesdale, is a sight tae warm yer hert.

And there’s Pottinger o’ Newburgh, a very famous farm,
They tell me there’s an awful lot o’ treasure in the barn,
The draughts association held a big carousal there,
And they wid’na swop the takings wi’ a multi millionaire.

And there’s Chappie Ritch o’ Burnside wi’ the massive dwelling hoose,
A bonnie wife and twa three sons and lots o’ dairy coos,
He never lets things worry him, he never gets the creeps,
But there’s one thing he dis’no like . . . and that’s transplanted neeps.

And at the farm o’ Rosehill there’s a ploughman of repute,
At feerings and at feenishes, he kens whit he’s aboot,
And his sister fair can single neeps, she seems to know what’s wanted,
Exactly to the measurement and none o’ them’s transplanted.

Tommy Hutchison o’ Clairmount’s pretty wealthy I suppose,
He’s got some dandy soos that he exhibits at the shows,
I don’t ken what his soos are like, or what’s their pedigree,
But if they’re as bonnie as his wife, they’re worth to go and see.

And there’s the men o’ Langskail, they’re very fond o’ music,
When they play “Pop goes the weasel” you would think it was a classic,
And what a fiddle they’ve got there, the size o’ it’s infernal,
If we had the like in Harray, we wad use it for a girnal.

I ken tae see yer faces noo yet saired o’ a’ this blether,
So seein it’s yer harvest home we’ll a’ rejoice together,
We’ll sure enjoy the harvest home o’ 1953,
It’s better fun than listening tae a blether skate like me.