Old England wreathes her gorgeous rose
With minstrelsy sublime;
The flower to Highland hearts most dear,
I fain would praise in rhyme.
It bloometh not in palace grounds,
But on the rough hillside;
It boasteth no patrician birth,
It is a people's pride.
Where streamlet leaves its rocky bed
To warble o'er the plain;
Where cataract leaps forth in foam,
On to the seething main.
Down-trampled on the serried field
Where love from love was riven;
Where patriot soul was offered up
As incense unto Heaven.
Where young hearts meet at eventide,
The old, old tale to tell;
In shady nooks, by purling brooks,
There blooms the sweet harebell.
Where cadence of the martyrs' hymn
Bright seraphim revoiced,
As e'en from moorland, fen and cave
Old Scotia's saints rejoiced.
Where ruin mocks those hoary towers
In which mailed knight held sway;
Beside the peaceful cottage door,
Type of this better day.
Bright silvery lochs! dark frowning crags!
Which Scotia's history tell;
Ye impress on my heart of hearts
The land I love so well.
And, through the golden glory-glist
O'er mount, and rock and fell,
There smileth up to Memory's eyes
The dear, Scotch Heatherbell.