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Lovers, ye whose hearts are throbbing,
Ye whose souls your passion warms,
Think on foreign soldiers robbing
Thy fair maid of all her charms.
Rise, and Champion-like, defending
Innocence from brutal lust!
On your foes your wrath descending,
Lay them sprauling in the dust.
Ye, in life’s exalted stations,
On to feats of glory lead,
Shew the Chief who plunders nations
Scots nor death, nor danger dread.
Throng and thronger round the banner,
Grasp the spear, the lance, the shield;
Shew proud Gaul our Scottish manner
Is to die, but never yield.
From hill and dale, from glen or grotto,
Round the British Flag resort;
Justify our nation’s motto,
No man touches me unhurt.
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