Shakespeare.    

	Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots
	Frae Maiden Kirk to Johnny Groat’s.

Burns.    

	Give me but one hour of Scotland;
	Let me see it ere I die.

Wm. E. Aytoun.    

Sydney Smith.    

Burns.    

	O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
	For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent!
	Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
	Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content.

Burns.    

	The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride,
	True is the charge, nor by themselves denied,
	Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear,
	Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here.

Churchill.    

	Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
	Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
	Welcome to your gory bed,
	Or to victory!

Burns.    

	O Caledonia! stern and wild,
	Meet nurse for a poetic child!
	Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
	Land of the mountain and the flood,
	Land of my sires! what mortal hand
	Can e’er untie the filial band,
	That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Scott.    

	And though, as you remember, in a fit
	Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly,
	I railed at Scots to show my wrath and wit,
	Which must be owned was sensitive and surly,
	Yet ’tis in vain such sallies to permit,
	They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early:
	I “scotched, not killed” the Scotchman in my blood,
	And love the land of “mountain and of flood.”

Byron.