I.
From Scotland comes a joyful voice,
All her rugged bounds rejoice,
In the glens the pibroch thrills,
Bonfires flash upon the hills,
Banners to the wind are rolled,
And the voice of echo old
Sounds again a note of gladness,
When we deemed him sunk in sadness,
Mourning for the fallen place
Of his native tongue and race:
Now his voice is loud in song,
The glad sons of youth among.
Spirit of the Gaelic earth,
Wherefore is this wondrous mirth
That hath waked thee from the tomb,
And to triumph turned thy gloom?
Whence thy crown of joy so bright,
Gleaming on the dazzled sight?
II.
Said the Spirit, shaking proudly
His bright locks of comely hair,
Gladness hath been shed around me
Like the bursting of the wave
When the crested rollers bounding
Toss their white foam in the air;
Like cold water to the parching,
Like skill'd fingers on the harp-string,
Like love's breast to wretch forlorn,
Bringing balm to spirit torn,
Such hath been the news to me,
That hath stirred my soul to glee,
And my heart to joy did waken,
As when waves of wintry sea
Wildly dash in Corryvreckan,
For on Inverary's green
Rings the shout of hosts afar,
Where the gathered clansmen muster,
And in every eye is seen,
Not the dreadful light of war,
But love's warm and kindly lustre.
III.
Raise, ye children of the heroes,
That have worn the Highland tartan,
Lusty cheer on every hillside,
From the far green glens of Cataibh,
To Argyll, the nurse of valour.
As brown Diarmad, loved of women,
Slew the wild boar in the dern wood,
And won glory never dying,
While a tale is told in Gaelic,
So the golden-haired young hero
Slew the dragon, plucked the apple.
Apple noble, world's desire,
Which he bears to Inverary.
He hath vanquished all the English,
Pomp of England, pride of Ireland,
And from German hands he carried
Off the spoil that princes longed for,
Great as is their king and army!
Let the waters of Awe and of Aray rejoice,
Each burnie and streamlet in song lift their voice,
With pride and with joy wakes the music of the glens,
When the wedding-robe decks the proud land of the Bens,
Hail to thee Lorne, and thy Princess together,
Welcome are both to the hills of the heather!
Hail to thee, young chief, and yet again hail!
No wonder my darling o'er all should prevail,
For no blood of Kaiser or King ever born
Is better than flows in the blue veins of Lorne.
Thou well-favoured youth of the gold-yellow hair,
Full worthy thou art of thy heritage fair,
From the dawn of thy days thou wert pure without spot,
Thy course like the bright sun that wavereth not.
Hail to the diamond that beams in thy crown,
The Princess whose true heart and hand are thine own,
Well may the mountain land bid her all hail,
Who is simple in greatness as flower of the vale.
Sweet blossom the flowrets, unheeded of men,
With censers of fragrance perfuming the glen,
The bloom of their beauty unvalued doth fall,
But the peerless white Rose wins the worship of all.
O child of good Mother most royal in worth,
Whose fathers of old wore the crown of the North,
As dew to the mountains and glens of our Isle,
Is thy coming in joy with the heir of Argyll!
Thou heir of great fathers, and thou his young bride,
Fair as down of the mountain, or shell of the tide,
May the best dews of blessing descend from above,
To the end of their days, on the pair of my love!
Hail to thee Lorne, and thy Princess together!
Welcome are both to the hills of the heather,
Hail to thee, Hail to thee, Hail to thee, Lorne!
With thy love to the land where thy fathers were born.
From Scotland comes a joyful voice,
All her rugged bounds rejoice,
In the glens the pibroch thrills,
Bonfires flash upon the hills,
Banners to the wind are rolled,
And the voice of echo old
Sounds again a note of gladness,
When we deemed him sunk in sadness,
Mourning for the fallen place
Of his native tongue and race:
Now his voice is loud in song,
The glad sons of youth among.
Spirit of the Gaelic earth,
Wherefore is this wondrous mirth
That hath waked thee from the tomb,
And to triumph turned thy gloom?
Whence thy crown of joy so bright,
Gleaming on the dazzled sight?
II.
Said the Spirit, shaking proudly
His bright locks of comely hair,
Gladness hath been shed around me
Like the bursting of the wave
When the crested rollers bounding
Toss their white foam in the air;
Like cold water to the parching,
Like skill'd fingers on the harp-string,
Like love's breast to wretch forlorn,
Bringing balm to spirit torn,
Such hath been the news to me,
That hath stirred my soul to glee,
And my heart to joy did waken,
As when waves of wintry sea
Wildly dash in Corryvreckan,
For on Inverary's green
Rings the shout of hosts afar,
Where the gathered clansmen muster,
And in every eye is seen,
Not the dreadful light of war,
But love's warm and kindly lustre.
III.
Raise, ye children of the heroes,
That have worn the Highland tartan,
Lusty cheer on every hillside,
From the far green glens of Cataibh,
To Argyll, the nurse of valour.
As brown Diarmad, loved of women,
Slew the wild boar in the dern wood,
And won glory never dying,
While a tale is told in Gaelic,
So the golden-haired young hero
Slew the dragon, plucked the apple.
Apple noble, world's desire,
Which he bears to Inverary.
He hath vanquished all the English,
Pomp of England, pride of Ireland,
And from German hands he carried
Off the spoil that princes longed for,
Great as is their king and army!
Let the waters of Awe and of Aray rejoice,
Each burnie and streamlet in song lift their voice,
With pride and with joy wakes the music of the glens,
When the wedding-robe decks the proud land of the Bens,
Hail to thee Lorne, and thy Princess together,
Welcome are both to the hills of the heather!
Hail to thee, young chief, and yet again hail!
No wonder my darling o'er all should prevail,
For no blood of Kaiser or King ever born
Is better than flows in the blue veins of Lorne.
Thou well-favoured youth of the gold-yellow hair,
Full worthy thou art of thy heritage fair,
From the dawn of thy days thou wert pure without spot,
Thy course like the bright sun that wavereth not.
Hail to the diamond that beams in thy crown,
The Princess whose true heart and hand are thine own,
Well may the mountain land bid her all hail,
Who is simple in greatness as flower of the vale.
Sweet blossom the flowrets, unheeded of men,
With censers of fragrance perfuming the glen,
The bloom of their beauty unvalued doth fall,
But the peerless white Rose wins the worship of all.
O child of good Mother most royal in worth,
Whose fathers of old wore the crown of the North,
As dew to the mountains and glens of our Isle,
Is thy coming in joy with the heir of Argyll!
Thou heir of great fathers, and thou his young bride,
Fair as down of the mountain, or shell of the tide,
May the best dews of blessing descend from above,
To the end of their days, on the pair of my love!
Hail to thee Lorne, and thy Princess together!
Welcome are both to the hills of the heather,
Hail to thee, Hail to thee, Hail to thee, Lorne!
With thy love to the land where thy fathers were born.