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MY NATIVE LAND!, by                    
First Line: How grand are scotland's rugged hills, where mountain torrent foam!
Last Line: That scotia's thistle leaves a wound when clutch'd by foeman's hand.
Subject(s): Patriotism; Scotland


How grand are Scotland's rugged hills, where mountain torrent foam!
How still and lovely are her glens, where Highland maidens roam!
What land can boast more gallant hearts than Scotia's honour'd clime?
What land so rich in love and fame, so grand and so sublime?

Ours is the land where freemen trod -- the land where tyrants fell;
Amidst whose lofty mountain peaks oppression dare not dwell.
The land where martyrs' tombs arise beside the patriot's grave;
The land where Scotland's Thistle wild shall ever proudly wave.

And from her heath-clad Highland hills what dauntless heroes came --
No false detractor's coward hand can mar their wreath of fame.
Waken'd from peace by Honour's call, the sword of death to wield,
The plaided warriors of the north were foremost on the field.

When, conquering all the world beside, the Roman legions came,
The dauntless spirits of the north they vainly strove to tame.
While Scotland's mountains lift their heads, her title still shall be
Engraved in lines of living fire, the birthplace of the free.

And dost thou ask her of her sons a token to produce?
She points upon the scroll of fame -- a Wallace and a Bruce.
O! well may Scotland's bosom glow at Wallace -- glorious name --
He won her many a laurel wreath on fields of deathless fame.

But who so base as he who seeks to slight his native land,
Who open'd first his infant eyes on Scotia's honour'd strand,
Yet seeks to cast aspersion false upon her patriots brave --
See, Scotland, with indignant frown, disclaims the recreant slave.

Who fain would slight the noble blood shed for her battles won,
She spurns the traitor from her side, nor owns him as her son.
No -- let him fly to burning climes, where slavish terrors reign;
He likes not our cold mountain land -- it yields him but disdain.

Let him be fann'd by crouching slaves in some more kindred land;
Let no pure Scottish maiden give to him her heart or hand;
But let him learn that Scottish hearts still dwell upon her strand;
That Scotia's Thistle leaves a wound when clutch'd by foeman's hand.





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