Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains,
Are famous in story--the birth-place of song;
Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest,
Well may thy pilgrims long for their home.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!
Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes
To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave;
Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime,
For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!