First thing in the morning when I rise from my bed
I put my boots on and my coat and open the old hen shed
And then, I get a bucket and take it to the well
And it hits the granite rock inside
Clank, clank, clank as I lower it down
Like a cracked and deadened bell.
Then I give the hens to drink the soft Scottish water and
Scatter them provender
And I then also take a drink and
It’s delicious, soft Scottish water born December
Cold, refreshing, purest clear, soft Scottish water.
And brush my teeth with it
And make them sparkle white and shine bright and
Liven up my tongue and harken to this:
You will never make your kettle fur
With soft Scottish water.
And splash my face with it, the soft Scottish water
Tingling, shocked but widely woken
Ready now to take the day and
Still not a words been spoken.
Some wake each day in city or in town
Without a bucket from the well to wash their troubles down
But me? Oh, I rise every morning and
I come to be,
With my staff of life
The soft Scottish water.
And I made it into a song too.
