Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing:
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding, war-steeds are bounding:—
Stand to your arms and march in good order:
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray,
When the blue bonnets came over the border.
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses.
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
If still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yes, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho’ elements war,
Tho’ cataracts foam ’stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid:
On chieftains departed my memory ponder’d,
As daily I stray’d through the pine cover’d glade.
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;