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I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
Wi' a' the honours three.
The thistle wags upon the fields
Whare Wallace bare his blade,
They gave her foemen's dearest blude
To dye her auld grey plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee:—
Auld Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
Whare Wallace bare his blade,
They gave her foemen's dearest blude
To dye her auld grey plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee:—
Auld Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
They tell o' lan's wi' brichter skies,
Whare freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gi'e me the land whare Ossian dwelt,
And Coila's minstrel sang—
For I've nae skill o' lan's, my lays,
That kenna to be free—
Then Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
Whare freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gi'e me the land whare Ossian dwelt,
And Coila's minstrel sang—
For I've nae skill o' lan's, my lays,
That kenna to be free—
Then Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.
WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.
A wee bird cam' to our ha' door,
He warbled sweet and clearly,
And aye the o'ercome o' his sang
Was, 'Waes me for Prince Charlie.'
He warbled sweet and clearly,
And aye the o'ercome o' his sang
Was, 'Waes me for Prince Charlie.'
