Classic Poem

Wool from the mountain, dyes from the vale,
Loom in the clachan, peat-fires bright;
To every strand of it some old tale—
Oh the tartan kilt is my delight!
Went to its spinning brave songs of Lorn;
Its hues from the berry and herb were spilt;
Lilts of the forest and glee of morn
Are in his walking who wears the kilt!

For priest nor clerk nor merchant men,
Nor biders at home was the pleating pressed,
But for the loins of those who ken
Hill-wandering, offspring of the mist;
Wood-trackers, waders of wild streams,
The world their pillow, their roof the night;
Who sleeps in tartan has high dreams,
Oh the kilt of the Highlands is my delight!

I will put on me that gallant gear,
Brave first garb of the human kind,
Travel the moors and the hills of deer,
And feel on my body the kiss of the wind.
Be it melting heat or the driven sleet,
Kings to stand with or foes to fight,
Dance in the shealing, or death to meet,
Oh the darling kilt is my delight!