Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.

He hath a share of man's intelligence, but no share of man's falsehood.

In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.

I was born a Scotsman and a bare one. Therefore I was born to fight my way in the world.

'Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me!

Heap on more wood! - the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

Where is the coward that would not dare to fight for such a land as Scotland?