“Vassal of England, yes! a grave Where sleep the faithful and the brave; And who the glory would resign Of death like theirs, for life like thine? They slumber--and the stranger’s tread May spurn thy country’s noble dead; Yet, on the land they loved so well, Still shall their burning spirit dwell, Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme, Their image rise on warrior’s dream, Their names be inspiration’s breath, Kindling high hope and scorn of death, Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, The flame that shall avenge their doom! This is no land for chains--away! O’er softer climes let tyrants sway. Think’st thou the mountain and the storm Their hardy sons for bondage form? Doth our stern wintry blast instil Submission to a despot’s will? No! _we_ were cast in other mould Than theirs by lawless power controll’d; The nurture of our bitter sky Calls forth resisting energy; And the wild fastnesses are ours, The rocks with their eternal towers. The soul to struggle and to dare Is mingled with our northern air, And dust beneath our soil is lying Of those who died for fame undying. “Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be No loftier thought is roused in thee? Doth no high feeling proudly start From slumber in thine inmost heart? No secret voice thy bosom thrill, For thine own Scotland pleading still? Oh! wake thee yet--indignant, claim A nobler fate, a purer fame, And cast to earth thy fetters riven, And take thine offer’d crown from heaven. Wake! in that high majestic lot May the dark past be all forgot; And Scotland shall forgive the field Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d. E’en I--though on that fatal plain Lies my heart’s brother with the slain; Though, reft of his heroic worth, My spirit dwells alone on earth; And when all other grief is past, Must _this_ be cherish’d to the last-- Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, With faith unspotted as his own; Nor in thy noon of fame recall _Whose_ was the guilt that wrought his fall.”