Fair shone the rising sky,
The dewdrops clad wi' mony a dye,
Larks lilting pibrochs high,
To welcome day's returning.
The spreading hills, the shading trees,
High waving in the morning breeze;
The wee Scots rose that softly blows,
Sweet Earn's vale adorning.

Flow on, sweet Earn, row on, sweet Earn,
Joy to a' thy bonny braes!
Spring's sweet buds aye first do blow
Where thy winding waters flow.
Thro' the banks which wild flowers border,
Freely wind, and proudly flow,
Where Wallace wight fought for the right,
And gallant Grahams are lying low.

O Scotland! nurse o' mony a name
Revered for worth, renown'd in fame;
Let never foes tell to thy shame,
Gane is thine ancient loyalty
But still the true-born warlike band
That guards thy high unconquer'd land,
As did their sires, join hand in hand,
To fight for law and royalty.

Oh, ne'er for greed o' warldly gear,
Let thy brave sons, like fugies, hide
Where lawless stills pollute the rills
That o'er thy hills and valleys glide.
While in the field they scorn to yield,
And while their native soil is dear,
Oh, may their truth be as its rocks,
And conscience as its waters clear!