Old Scotland, thou art waste and wild,
And cold the sky above thee;
Yet I have loved thee from a child,
And will for ever love thee!
Where first the warm and living breath
Heaved my unconscious bosom,
And would I o'er my bed of death
Thy heather-bells may blossom!
I love thee for the joys of yore,
by burn, by brae, and wildwood;
For border lay, and bardic lore,
So cherished from my childhood;
And thine the unconquered hills that rang,
Of old, from cliff and corrie,
To Fingal's fame as Ossian sang
The ancient strain and story!
Where Wallace wight with doughty deed,
Thy hallowed cause asserted,
And, though he won the martyr's meed,
The southron thrall averted.
Where led the Bruce of Bannockburn
His band of warrior brothers,
And made the Saxon monarch mourn,
With Saxon maids and mothers;--
Thy sons still like their sires of eild,
The valiant--the victorious--
Have coped, in many a later field,
With gallant men and glorious,
Still with thy lion-rampant forth,
Shall march in martial order,--
A Donald from the Alpine North--
A Douglas from the Border!
