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| ’MONG Scotia’s glens an’ mountains blue, | |
| Where Gallia’s lilies never grew, | |
| Where Roman eagles never flew, | |
| Nor Danish lions rallied; | |
| Where skulks the roe in anxious fear, | 5 |
| Where roves the stately, nimble deer, | |
| There live the lads to freedom dear, | |
| By foreign yoke ne’er galled. | |
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| There woods grow wild on every hill; | |
| There freemen wander at their will; | 10 |
| Sure Scotland will be Scotland still | |
| While hearts so brave defend her. | |
| “Fear not, our Sovereign liege,” they cry, | |
| “We ’ve flourished fair beneath thine eye; | |
| For thee we ’ll fight, for thee we ’ll die, | 15 |
| Nor aught but life surrender. | |
| |
| “Since thou hast watched our every need, | |
| And taught our navies wide to spread, | |
| The smallest hair from thy gray head | |
| No foreign foe shall sever. | 20 |
| Thy honored age in peace to save, | |
| The sternest host we ’ll dauntless brave, | |
| Or stem the fiercest Indian wave, | |
| Nor heart nor hand shall waver. | |
| |
| “Though nations join yon tyrant’s arm, | 25 |
| While Scotia’s noble blood runs warm, | |
| Our good old man we ’ll guard from harm, | |
| Or fall in heaps around him. | |
| Although the Irish harp were won, | |
| And England’s roses all o’errun, | 30 |
| ’Mong Scotia’s glens with sword and gun, | |
| We ’ll form a bulwark round him.” | |
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