Classic Poem

What can a kilted callant do,
But like his gallant sire, man,
Baith learn to fecht an' conquer too,
Wi' Highland pith and fire, man?
The love o' hill, o' heath, an' hame,
Comes wi' his first-drawn breath man,
And Freedom beits the patriot flame
That bleezes bright till death man.

Your feckless, thowless, Southlan' brats,
Dang doyte wi' licks an' lair man,
May deave ye wi' their gabbin' chats,
But can do little mair man.
Their licks an' laws, their beuks an' taws,
Man's stalwart vigour kills man;
But gin ye'd see him bauld an' free,
Come to our Highland hills man.

Here ilka callant learns to wield
His dirk, claymore, an' a' man;
And scorns his limbs in breeks to bield,
For a' the blasts that blaw man;
And though they swear their lowland lear
Maks Britain great and free man,
It's our snell braes that gaurs her faes
A' cowerin' swarf an' flee man.

Hurrah for Scotland's laurelled fame!
Hurrah for Britain's glory!
Long may they wear their taintless name,
Lang shine in sang and story.
Lang may the voice o' Freedom ring
Through ilka Scottish shieling;
And lang may Britain's callants sing,
Inspired wi' kindred feeling.