He is coming! He is coming! Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom.
They bore within their breasts the grief That fame can never heal- That deep, unutterable woe Which none save exiles feel.
Nowhere beats the heart so kindly as beneath the tartan plaid!
The earth is all the home I have, the heavens my wide roof-tree
Give me but one hour of Scotland, Let me see it ere I die.
Do not lift him from the bracken, Leave him lying where he fell- Better bier ye cannot fashion: None beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, And the hard and trampled sod, Whence his angry soul ascended To the judgment seat of God!