Page:Dearest Helen.pdf/7

Unmatched is our country, unrivall’d our swains,
And lovely and true is the nymphs on our plains,
Where rises the thistle—the thistle sae green.

Far fam’d are our sires in the battles of yore,
And many the cairnies that rise on our shore,
O'er the foes that invaded the thistle sae green,
And many a cairnie shall rise on our strand,
should the torrent of war ever burst on our land;
Let foe come on foe, like wave upon wave,
We’ll give them a welcome, we'll give them a grave,
Beneath the red heather and thistle sae green!

Oh! dear to our souls are the blessings of Heav’n,
the freedom we boast of, the land which we live in,
The land of the thistle—the thistle sae green;
O'er that land and that freedom our forefathers bled,
And we swear by the blood which our fathers have shed,
That no foot of a foe shall e’er tread on their grave;
That the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave—
The thistle of Scotia!—the thistle sae green!