TO SCOTLAND.

Scotland! the land of all I love,The land of all that love me;Land, whose green sod my youth has trod,Whose sod shall lie above me!Hail! country of the brave and good,Hail! land of song and story;Land of the uncorrupted heart,Of ancient faith and glory!Like mother’s bosom o’er her child,Thy sky is glowing o’er me;Like mother’s ever-smiling face,Thy land lies bright before me.Land of my home, my father’s land,Land where my soul was nourished;Land of anticipated joy,And all by memory cherish’d!Oh, Scotland, through thy wide domain,What hill, or vale, or river,But in this fond enthusiast heartHas found a place for ever?Nay, hast thou but a glen or shaw,To shelter farm or shieling,That is not garner’d fondly upWithin its depths of feeling?Adown thy hills run countless rills,With noisy, ceaseless motion;Their waters join the rivers broad,Those rivers join the ocean:And many a sunny, flowery brae,Where childhood plays and ponders,Is freshen’d by the lightsome flood,As wimpling on it wanders.Within thy long-descending vales,And on the lonely mountain,How many wild spontaneous flowersHang o’er each flood and fountain!The glowing furze—the “bonny broom,The thistle and the heather;The bluebell, and the gowan fair,Which childhood loves to gather.Oh, for that pipe of silver sound,On which the shepherd lover,In ancient days, breathed out his soul,Beneath the mountain’s cover!Oh, for that Great Lost Power of Song,So soft and melancholy,To make thy every hill and dalePoetically holy!And not alone each hill and dale,Fair as they are by nature,But every town and tower of thine,And every lesser feature;For where is there the spot of earth,Within my contemplation,But from some noble deed or thingHas taken consecration?First, I could sing how brave thy sons,How pious and true-hearted,Who saved a bloody heritageFor us in times departed;Who, through a thousand years of wrong,Oppress’d and disrespected,Ever the generous, righteous causeReligiously protected.I’d sing of that old early time,When came the victor Roman,And, for the first time, found in themUncompromising foemen;When that proud bird, which never stoop’dTo foe, however fiery,Met eagles of a sterner broodIn this our northern eyry.Next, of that better glorious time,When thy own patriot WallaceRepell’d and smote the myriad foeWhich storm’d thy mountain palace;When on the sward of BannockburnDe Bruce his standard planted,And drove the proud PlantagenetBefore him, pale and daunted.Next, how, through ages of despair,Thou brav’dst the English banner,Fighting like one who hopes to saveNo valued thing but honour.How thy own young and knightly kings,And their fair hapless daughter,Left but a tale of broken heartsTo vary that of slaughter.How, in a later, darker time,When wicked men were reigning,Thy sons went to the wilderness,All but their God disdaining;There, hopeful only of the grave,To stand through morn and even,Where all on earth was black despair,And nothing bright but heaven.And, later still, when times were changed,And tend’rer thoughts came o’er thee,When abject, suppliant, and poor,Thy injurer came before thee.How thou did’st freely all forgive,Thy heart and sword presented,Although thou knew’st the deed must beIn tears of blood repented.Scotland! the land of all I love,The land of all that love me;Land, whose green sod my youth has trod,Whose sod shall lie above me!Hail! country of the brave and good,Hail! land of song and story;Land of the uncorrupted heart,Of ancient faith and glory!R. C.

Scotland! the land of all I love,

The land of all that love me;

Land, whose green sod my youth has trod,

Whose sod shall lie above me!

Hail! country of the brave and good,

Hail! land of song and story;

Land of the uncorrupted heart,

Of ancient faith and glory!

Like mother’s bosom o’er her child,Thy sky is glowing o’er me;Like mother’s ever-smiling face,Thy land lies bright before me.Land of my home, my father’s land,Land where my soul was nourished;Land of anticipated joy,And all by memory cherish’d!

Like mother’s bosom o’er her child,

Thy sky is glowing o’er me;

Like mother’s ever-smiling face,

Thy land lies bright before me.

Land of my home, my father’s land,

Land where my soul was nourished;

Land of anticipated joy,

And all by memory cherish’d!

Oh, Scotland, through thy wide domain,What hill, or vale, or river,But in this fond enthusiast heartHas found a place for ever?Nay, hast thou but a glen or shaw,To shelter farm or shieling,That is not garner’d fondly upWithin its depths of feeling?

Oh, Scotland, through thy wide domain,

What hill, or vale, or river,

But in this fond enthusiast heart

Has found a place for ever?

Nay, hast thou but a glen or shaw,

To shelter farm or shieling,

That is not garner’d fondly up

Within its depths of feeling?

Adown thy hills run countless rills,With noisy, ceaseless motion;Their waters join the rivers broad,Those rivers join the ocean:And many a sunny, flowery brae,Where childhood plays and ponders,Is freshen’d by the lightsome flood,As wimpling on it wanders.

Adown thy hills run countless rills,

With noisy, ceaseless motion;

Their waters join the rivers broad,

Those rivers join the ocean:

And many a sunny, flowery brae,

Where childhood plays and ponders,

Is freshen’d by the lightsome flood,

As wimpling on it wanders.

Within thy long-descending vales,And on the lonely mountain,How many wild spontaneous flowersHang o’er each flood and fountain!The glowing furze—the “bonny broom,The thistle and the heather;The bluebell, and the gowan fair,Which childhood loves to gather.

Within thy long-descending vales,

And on the lonely mountain,

How many wild spontaneous flowers

Hang o’er each flood and fountain!

The glowing furze—the “bonny broom,

The thistle and the heather;

The bluebell, and the gowan fair,

Which childhood loves to gather.

Oh, for that pipe of silver sound,On which the shepherd lover,In ancient days, breathed out his soul,Beneath the mountain’s cover!Oh, for that Great Lost Power of Song,So soft and melancholy,To make thy every hill and dalePoetically holy!

Oh, for that pipe of silver sound,

On which the shepherd lover,

In ancient days, breathed out his soul,

Beneath the mountain’s cover!

Oh, for that Great Lost Power of Song,

So soft and melancholy,

To make thy every hill and dale

Poetically holy!

And not alone each hill and dale,Fair as they are by nature,But every town and tower of thine,And every lesser feature;For where is there the spot of earth,Within my contemplation,But from some noble deed or thingHas taken consecration?

And not alone each hill and dale,

Fair as they are by nature,

But every town and tower of thine,

And every lesser feature;

For where is there the spot of earth,

Within my contemplation,

But from some noble deed or thing

Has taken consecration?

First, I could sing how brave thy sons,How pious and true-hearted,Who saved a bloody heritageFor us in times departed;Who, through a thousand years of wrong,Oppress’d and disrespected,Ever the generous, righteous causeReligiously protected.

First, I could sing how brave thy sons,

How pious and true-hearted,

Who saved a bloody heritage

For us in times departed;

Who, through a thousand years of wrong,

Oppress’d and disrespected,

Ever the generous, righteous cause

Religiously protected.

I’d sing of that old early time,When came the victor Roman,And, for the first time, found in themUncompromising foemen;When that proud bird, which never stoop’dTo foe, however fiery,Met eagles of a sterner broodIn this our northern eyry.

I’d sing of that old early time,

When came the victor Roman,

And, for the first time, found in them

Uncompromising foemen;

When that proud bird, which never stoop’d

To foe, however fiery,

Met eagles of a sterner brood

In this our northern eyry.

Next, of that better glorious time,When thy own patriot WallaceRepell’d and smote the myriad foeWhich storm’d thy mountain palace;When on the sward of BannockburnDe Bruce his standard planted,And drove the proud PlantagenetBefore him, pale and daunted.

Next, of that better glorious time,

When thy own patriot Wallace

Repell’d and smote the myriad foe

Which storm’d thy mountain palace;

When on the sward of Bannockburn

De Bruce his standard planted,

And drove the proud Plantagenet

Before him, pale and daunted.

Next, how, through ages of despair,Thou brav’dst the English banner,Fighting like one who hopes to saveNo valued thing but honour.How thy own young and knightly kings,And their fair hapless daughter,Left but a tale of broken heartsTo vary that of slaughter.

Next, how, through ages of despair,

Thou brav’dst the English banner,

Fighting like one who hopes to save

No valued thing but honour.

How thy own young and knightly kings,

And their fair hapless daughter,

Left but a tale of broken hearts

To vary that of slaughter.

How, in a later, darker time,When wicked men were reigning,Thy sons went to the wilderness,All but their God disdaining;There, hopeful only of the grave,To stand through morn and even,Where all on earth was black despair,And nothing bright but heaven.

How, in a later, darker time,

When wicked men were reigning,

Thy sons went to the wilderness,

All but their God disdaining;

There, hopeful only of the grave,

To stand through morn and even,

Where all on earth was black despair,

And nothing bright but heaven.

And, later still, when times were changed,And tend’rer thoughts came o’er thee,When abject, suppliant, and poor,Thy injurer came before thee.How thou did’st freely all forgive,Thy heart and sword presented,Although thou knew’st the deed must beIn tears of blood repented.

And, later still, when times were changed,

And tend’rer thoughts came o’er thee,

When abject, suppliant, and poor,

Thy injurer came before thee.

How thou did’st freely all forgive,

Thy heart and sword presented,

Although thou knew’st the deed must be

In tears of blood repented.