Classic Poem

Gae bring my guid auld harp ance mair,
—Gae bring it free and fast,
For I maun sing anither sang,
—Ere a' my glee be past;
And trow ye as I sing, my lads,
—The burden o't shall be,
Auld Scotland's howes and Scotland's knowes,
—And Scotland's hills for me;
We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
—Wi' a' the honors three.

The heath waves wild upon her hills,
—And, foaming frae the fells,
Her fountains sing o' freedom still,
—As they dance doun the dells;
And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,
—That's girded by the sea;
Then Scotland's vales and Scotland's dales,
—And Scotland's hills for me;
We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
—Wi' a' the honors three.

The thistle wags upon the fields,
—Where Wallace bore his blade,
That gave her foemen's dearest bluid
—To dye her auld gray plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
—He sang this doughty glee,
Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might,
—And Scotland's hills for me;
We'll drink a cup for Scotland yet,
—Wi' a' the honors three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,
—Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,
—And Coila's minstrel sang;
For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,
—That kenna to be free;
Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might,
—And Scotland's hills for me;
We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
—Wi' a' the honors three.