The land ye loed wi hairt an harns is hyne, Hir gloir is dungen doun an gane til glaur; The memorie o hir mervells oot of mynd, Wicht wyne til watter wersh aa went, or waur, That ance did fill wi flammand dremes an fyre Hir sons’ sweit sangs, quha eirar daith wald daur Tae live at libertie, nor menseless myre Thair saulls in saikless swouns an dootis dire Anent thair richt tae breathe, be blythe, an ring In this luvit land that did your spreit inspyre: Clene gaen is graice an growth an coort an king:
Yit Lyoun, you dwall aye upoun the heichts, An your guid werks sall yit set aa tae richts.