My Native Land

Fair Scotland! dear as life to me

Are thy majestic hills;

And sweet as purest melody

The music of thy rills:

The wildest cairn, the darkest dell

Within thy rocky strand,

Possess o'er me a living spell—

Thou art my native land!

Loved country! when I muse upon

Thy dauntless men of old,

Whose swords in battle foremost shone—

Thy Wallace brave and bold.

And Bruce, who for our liberty

Did England's sway withstand—

I glory I was born in tnee,

My own ennobled land!

Nor less thy Martyrs I revere,

Who spent their latest breath

To seal the cause they held so dear,

And conquered even in death:

Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,

No bigot's stern command

Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,

My dear, devoted land!

And thou hast ties around my heart—

Attraction deeper still;

The gifted Poet's sacred art,

The Minstrel's matchless skill:

Yea, every scene that Burns and Scott

Have touched with magic hand,

Is in my sight a hallowed spot,

Mine own distinguished land!

O! when I wandered far from thee,

I saw thee in my dreams—

I marked thy forests waving free,

I heard thy rushing streams:

Thy mighty dead in life came forth;

I knew the honour'd band;

We spoke of thee—thy fame—thy worth,

My high exalted land!

Now, if the lowly home be mine

In which my fathers dwelt;

And I can worship at the shrine

Where they in fervour knelt;

No glare of wealth, or honour high,

Shall lure me from thy strand:

O! I would yield my parting sigh

In thee—my native land!