Where the high winds sweep the Perthshire green,
And the Ochil Hills rise sharp and clean,
Lies Rossie Ochil, where the history runs
Through centuries of rain and changing suns.
Long before the turbines turned their blades,
The drovers walked these upland glades.
With heavy boots and sticks in hand,
They drove the black cattle across the land.
From northern hills to the Crieff tryst floor,
Through old stone gates and the wild glen's door,
The steady beat of a hundred hooves
Echoed the paths that the great herd chooses.
Now Galloways roam where the drovers stepped,
An ancient promise faithfully kept.
The Whitebred Shorthorn rest on the quiet hill,
Where the spirit of droving is living still.