Wake every chord, strike every string,
Diffuse harmonious raptures round;
Ye foreign songsters warbling breathe
The sweetest strains of vocal sound.
Then, Scotia, pour thy native lays,
All tender, simple, wildly sweet,
Thy martial, mournful, lively airs,
Where Beauty, Power, and Pathos meet.
More rich, more sweet, more thrilling far
Than German or Italian song;
Wake, Scotia, wake thy mountain lyre,
And roll the inspiring tide along.
Oh! roll the glorious tide of song,
Soft gushing o'er the melting heart,
Till patriot Ardour, Mirth, and Love,
Their warmest, brightest powers impart.
When heart-warm tears eclipse thine eyes,
When struggling raptures thrill thy breast,
Be Scotia's peerless powers of song,
In all their native charms, confessed.