The Shires on the Moray Frith by James McIntyre

Worthy of either song or story / Are the shires round Frith of Moray, / Here lies the valley of Strathspey, / Famed for its music, lively, gay, / Elgin cathedral's 'prentice aisle / Is glory of that ruined pile.

What modern chisel now could trace / Fine sculpture of that ancient place, / And Forres famed for Sweyn's stane / In honor of that kingly Dane, / 'Graved with warriors runes and rhymes, / Long prior to historic times, / For a thousand years its been forgot / Who was victor Dane or Scot, / It is the country of McBeth / Where good King Duncan met his death, / And barren heath that place of fear / Stood witches cauldron of Shakespeare, / Nairn's Cawdor castle strong remains / Full worthy of the ancient Thanes, / And nestled 'neath the hills and bens / Queen of the moors, the lochs and glens, / Full proudly stands in vale of bliss / Chief Highland town of Inverness, / Near here the famous falls of Foyers / Where Burns and others tuned their lyres, / And the fatal field of dark Culloden / Where doughty clans were once down trodden, / Here men yet wear the tartan plaid / Ready to join the Highland Brigade, / And when the Frith you look across / The eye beholds Sutherland and Ross, / Where Duke has harnessed mighty team, / Plows hills and rocks and moors by steam, / Perhaps it may in part atone / For cruel clearings days bygone, / And Cromarty, whose wondrous mason, / First learned his geologic lesson, / Friends may rear a stately pillar, / The old red sand stone of Hugh Miller, / Ben Wyvis towers like monarch crowned, / Conspicuous o'er the hills around, / With crest 'ere white with driven snow, / Strathpeffer's water cure below.