|
[music by P. M'Leod;
poem by Henry Scott Riddell]
Gae bring my guid auld harp ance mair,
Gae bring it free and fast,
For I maun sing anither sang
Ere a' my glee be past;
An' trow ye, as I sing, my lads,
The burden o't shall be --
Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotlands knowes,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three!
The heath waves wild upon her hill
And foaming through the fells,
Her fountains sing of freedom still,
As they dash down the dells;
For weel I loe the land, my lads,
That's girded by the sea --
Then Scotland's vales, and Scotland's dales,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a caup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three!
The thistle wags upon the fields
Where Wallce bare his blade,
That gave her foemen's dearest blude,
To dye her auld grey plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee --
Auld Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotlant's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi a' the honours three!
They tell o' lan's wi' brichter skies,
Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gie me the lan' where Ossian dwelt,
And Colla's minstrel sang --
For I've nae skill o' lans', my lads,
That kenna to be free --
Then Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three! |
