Give me but one hour of Scotland, Let me see it ere I die.
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
They bore within their breasts the grief That fame can never heal- That deep, unutterable woe Which none save exiles feel.
He is coming! He is coming! Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom.
Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M,Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish; For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.