Come aa ye young ploughboys that list tae ma tale,

As ye sit roun the tables aa drinkin yer ale;

I'll tak ye aa back tae a far distant day,

When I drove the last Clydesdale, tae work on Denbrae.

 

There were twa bonnie blacks wi white faces and feet,

In the hale o the roond they had never been beat;

An ye'd lookit gey far twixt the Forth and the Tay,

For tae match thae twa Clydesdales, the pride o Denbrae.

 

They were matchless in power in the cairt or the ploo,

An ma voice and ma haund on the reins they weel knew;

There was only ae thocht in their minds but obey,

My twa gallant Clydesdales, the pride o Denbrae.

 

But the time it wears on, an the winters grow cauld,

An horses, like men, can dae nocht but grow auld;

But I mind o them still, as it were yesterday,

For I drove the last Clydesdales, tae work on Denbrae.