A Woodland Wander

Scotland Yet

 

Gae bring my guid auld harp aince mair;

Gae bring it free and fast,
For I maun sing anither sang
Ere a’ my glee be past:
And trow ye as I sing my lads,
The burthen o’t shall be –
Auld Scotland’s howes and Scotland’s knowes,
And Scotland’s hills for me!
I’ll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi a’ the honours three!

 

The heath waves wild upon her hills,
Her foaming frae the fells,
Her fountains sing o’ freedom still,
As they dance down the dells.
And weel I loe the land, my lads,
That’s girded by the sea.
Then Scotland’s vales, and Scotland’s dales,
And Scotland’s hills for me;
I’ll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi a’ the honours three!

 

The thistle wags upon the fields
Where Wallace bore his blade,
That her foeman’s dearest build
To dye her auld grey plaid:
And looking to the lift my lads,
He sang in doughty glee –
“Auld Scotland’s right, and Scotland’s might,
And Scotland’s hills for me;”
I’ll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi’ a’ the honours three!

 

They tell o’ lands wi’ brighter skies,
Where freedom’s voices ne’re rang;
Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,
And Coila’s minstrel sang,
That ken na to be free.
Then Scotland’s right, and Scotland’s might,
And Scotland’s hills for me;”
I’ll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi’ a’ the honours three!

 

                     Henry Scott Riddell (1798-1870)

 

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