This text comes from The Book of Scottish Song, edited by Alexander Whitelaw, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Now there's peace on the shore, now there's calm on the sea,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords.
Old Sir Ralph Abereromby, the good and the brave—
Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,
Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Though he died not like him amid victory's roar,
Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore,
Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall claim,
We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,
The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham,
All the broadswords, &c.
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth,
Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north,
Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth,
All the broadswords, &c.
The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,
For the private is brother in blood to his grace.
Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose and Dundee,
Oh, the broadswords of Old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords!