Classic Poem

In Scotland's cause — for Scotland's gude,
We'll blithely shed our dearest bluid, —
And stand or fa' as freeman should,
As we hae done before.
Now proudly come the foemen on,
Against auld Scotland's mountain throne;
The sun its last on them hath shone, —
Claymore!

We are freemen, an' maun ne'er be slaves —
We fight for heather-covered graves —
To tell yon comin' warrior-waves
That men our mothers bore;
For maidens loved — for parents dear,
Fourscore would battle were it here,
An' stand like us, nor think o' fear —
Claymore!

They break — they halt — they form again —
We well have borne the battle-strain:
The grass that clothes the reeking plain
Is wet with stranger gore.

Remember! for our native soil,
That a' we love at hame may smile;
Nerve ilka arm for bloody toil —
Claymore!

We've conquered! wives an' bairns a',
We've conquered' baith for grit an' sma' —
For maid and matron — puir and braw —
The bluidy darg is o'er.

Our fathers' weapon and our ain,
Thou'lt be our sons' we brawly ken —
By foughten fields! by foemen slain!