Fair, lies Abernethy, ‘neath Ochil’s green shade,
bright gem in the heart of rusticity laid;
where oft I’ve wanton, the friendly green hills,
and followed the windings of Ballo’s sweet rills
When far off Ben Vorlich blots out the sun’s rays
and pale shades of evening steal o’er the green braes,
from the hilltop I’ve viewed oft, the glorious west
and found peace and solace, in the nature at rest.
From Castle Law’s summit, how pleasant to gaze,
across Earn’s vale, bathed in hot summer haze,
to behold the fair cities of Perth and Dundee,
and the silv’ry Tay threading, it’s way to the sea.
Thro’ the tree sheltered Den, how enchanting to stroll,
where memories lurk upon each grassy knoll,
to reminisce fondly on yon childish pranks,
and the games we enjoyed on it’s mossy green banks.
With quiet, simple dignity, stands her Round Tower,
sound relic of a thousand year gone, Pictish power,
one imagines one hears, up it’s dark winding stair,
the whisper of ghosts of the past, in the air.
‘Tis dear, Abernethy will aye be to me,
where’e’r on this earth I may happen to be,
no place, in my heart, the Good Lord ever made,
will supplant Abernethy ‘neath Ochil’s green shade