'Scotland, the land of all I love,
The land of all that love me;
Land whose green sod my youth hath trod,
Whose sod shall lie above me.'
Auld Scotland! hoo I lo'e the name,
My guid auld-fashion'd mither!
It maunna be thy kin'ly bairns
Should tine thee a' thegither.
O! weel I like ilk thing o' thine-
Thy cozy theekit dwallin's,
Thy bare-fit lassies, tosh an' trig-
Thy canny, clever callans.
Thy misty hills are dear to me-
Ilk glen an' bosky dingle;
The lanely loch, on whilk the lichts
An' dancin' shadows mingle;
The muirlan' burnie, purple-fringed
Wi' hinny-scented heather,
Whaur gowden king-cups blink aneath
The brecken's waving feather.
Nae, mither! nae; we maunna pairt!
E'en tho' they say thou's deein'
That speech is gain, they say thy face
We'll sune nae mair be seein'.
But O! I fear the Doric's gaun,
For, mang baith auld an' young,
There's mony noo that canna read
Their printit mither tongue.
I like the English tongue fu' weel
In writin' an' in readin';
But 'tween the English an' the Scotch
There's lack o' truth an' breedin'.
It's England's meteor flag that burns
Abune oor battle plains;
Oor victories, baith by sea an' lan',
It's England aye that gains.
It's England mak's an' signs the peace
Whan nations tire o' fechtin';
Whan Europe's balance gangs agee,
She trims the scales for wechtin'.
An' England lauchs, as weel she may,
The Wallace touir at Stirlin'
Maun tapless staun, like pillar'd saut,
Until the maiks are birlin'.
An', mither, something's in the win'
Wull gar ye raise yer bristles;
There's some wad plant in a' yer kirks
The big kist fu' o' whistles.
Leuk up frae oot yer bluidy graves,
Ye martyr'd Covenanters,
Wha rais'd the saum in cave and glen,
An' bann'd baith pipes and chanters.
It's no the kittlin' o' the ear,
The thrillin' o' the sense,
The tearfu' e'e, an' upturn'd leuk,
In rapture maist intense;
The holy music Scotlan' craves
Are strains devotion brings
Warm frae the heart, whan God's ain han'
Sweeps ower the dinlin' strings.