From the misty, Moorfoot mountains, to the heights of Drylaw hill,
The dewdrops slowly gather into a rolling trill.
With trickling sons and daughters, from left and right they come,
Fluming in together they head for Tyninghame
She flows towards Pencaitland, where Glen Kinchie draws its dram,
Silent onto Nisbet, sair poached by Ted and Tam.
With two mills passed and ten to come, she gathers strength and run,
In the glade of Winton castle, she hails the Donort burn.
She meanders into Haddington, powering Abbey and Millfield
Cascades the weir tae Stevenson, tae beild at Sandy's mill
The wintry plains of Amisfield give all to nature's drain,
In the drouthy months o' summer, they suck it back again.
At Hailes, she saw Queen Mary seduce her lover braw,
She wept for rakish Darnley, sword through him, in the snaw.
She's wrocht nine birlin' water wheels, as she snakes along her bed,
In sight, is noo, the Houston mill but she is far from dead.
She gurgles ower the shallow stanes, afore auld Linton brig,
In deep pool she assembles, then pours forth a' her micht.
She batters o'er the scarred Linn rocks, wi' treachery and sound,
Her swirling hidden vortex where pair Dalgleish wis drowned.
She roars across the dookit field, where auld Wull kept his doos,
Gouging at the willows, where Myra grazed her coos.
Ah! Preston mill, then yin mair drive, the burns cling to her breast,
She's Tyne mouth bound to freedom, the Knowes mill gives her rest!
From 'The Heights of Drylaw Hill' by Arthur Greenan, 2008