Classic Poem

1

O spirit of the wind and sky;
Where doth thy harp neglected lie?
Is there no heart thy bard to be,
To wake that soul of melody;
Is liberty herself a slave?
No God forbids it, On ye brave;

2

I've loved thee, as the common air,
And paid thee worship every where;
In every soil beneath the sun,
Thy simple song, my heart has won;
And art thou silent! still a slave?
And thy son's living; On ye brave.

3

Gather on mountain, and on plain,
Make gossamer the iron chain,
Make prison walls as paper screen,
That tyrant maskers may be seen;
Let earth, as well as heaven be free,
So, on ye brave for liberty.

4

I've loved thy being from a boy,
The highland hills was once my joy;
Then morning mists did round them lie,
Like sunshine in the happiest sky.
Her hills, and valleys, seemed my own,
When Scottish land was freedom's throne.

5

And Scottish land is freedom's still;
Her beacon fires on every hill,
Have told in characters of flame,
Her ancient birthright, and her fame;
A thousand hills will speak again,
In fire, that language ever plain.

6

To sychop[h]ants, and fawning knaves,
That Scotland, ne'er was made for slaves. —
Her fruitful vales, her mountain thrones,
Are ruled by natures laws alone:
And nought but falshoods poisoned breath,
Will urge the Claymore from its sheath.

7

O spirit of the wind and sky,
Where doth thy harp neglected lie;
Is there no heart thy bard to be,
To wake that soul of melody;
Is liberty herself a slave,
No God forbids it — on ye brave!