To Scotland
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To Scotland

The breath of thee, Scotland, is fragrant;

The scent of thy hair

All myrtle and heather, with vagrant

Wild sweets on the air;

And rowans thy cheeks, and red roses

                     Thy lips are, and bluebells thine eyes:

Thy beauty the secret encloses

Of moorland and skies.

Of the calm and the storm of the ocean

That girdles thy shore

Thy moods have the stillness and motion,

The silent and roar.

Thy spring hath the whiteness of blossom,

Of snowdrop and foam,

And snowy in winter thy bosom,

Thou warriors’ home.


O Queen of the North! In thy story

What heroes there dwell!

There is tragedy, mystery, glory;

There is Heaven and Hell;

There are visions of seers, and the thunder

Of battle, and harpers and bards,

And pibrochs of infinite wonder,

And honour, and valour that guards.

There is truth, there is fortitude, fealty,

The martyrdom loyal hearts bear;

There is love that surpasseth in lealty:--

There was Bruce, there was Deirdre the Fair;

There was Charles in the dim corries ranging,

There was Flora to cherish and save:

Though the world change, thy Soul is not changing,

Thou faithful and brave!