Know'st thou the land

Know'st thou the land of the hardy green thistle,

Where oft o'er the mountain the shepherd's shrill whistle

Is heard in the gloamin' so sweetly to sound,

Where the red blooming heatlier and hair-bell abound?

Know'st thou the land of the mountain and flood,

Where the pine of the forest for ages hath stood,

Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,

And her young ones are rock'd on the high Cairngor'm?

Know'st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave

Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave;

Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,

And their spirits are light as their actions are free?

'Tis the land of my sires, 'tis the land of my youth,

Where first my young heart glow'd with honour and truth,

Where the wild fire of genius first caught my young soul,

And my feet and my fancy roam'd free from control.

And is there no charm in our own native earth?

Does no talisman rest on the place of our birth?

Are the blue hills of Albyn not worthy our note?

Shall her sons' deeds in war, shall her fair, be forgot?

Then strike the wild lyre, let it swell with the strain;

Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again;

Their past deeds of valour shall we not rehearse,

And the charms of our maidens resound in our verse?