The Thistle.
Let them boast of their country, give Patrick his fame,
Of the land in the ocean, and Anglian name,
With their red blushing roses, and shamrock sae green;
Far dearer to me are the hills of the North,
The land of blue mountains, the birth place of worth,
Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode,
Those wide-spreading glens, where no slave ever trode,
Where blooms the red heather and thistle see green.
Tho' rich be the soil, where blossoms the rose;
And bleak the high mountains, and cover'd with snows
Where blooms the red heather and thistle sae green;
Yet for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true,
And for courage so bold, which no foe could subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall'd our swains,
And lovely and true are 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 carnies that rise on our shore,
O'er the foes that invaded the thistle sae green;
And many a carnie 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 leather 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,
For that land and that freedom our fathers have 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:
But the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave—
The thistle of Scotia!—the thistle sae green!
Of the land in the ocean, and Anglian name,
With their red blushing roses, and shamrock sae green;
Far dearer to me are the hills of the North,
The land of blue mountains, the birth place of worth,
Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode,
Those wide-spreading glens, where no slave ever trode,
Where blooms the red heather and thistle see green.
Tho' rich be the soil, where blossoms the rose;
And bleak the high mountains, and cover'd with snows
Where blooms the red heather and thistle sae green;
Yet for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true,
And for courage so bold, which no foe could subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall'd our swains,
And lovely and true are 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 carnies that rise on our shore,
O'er the foes that invaded the thistle sae green;
And many a carnie 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 leather 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,
For that land and that freedom our fathers have 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:
But the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave—
The thistle of Scotia!—the thistle sae green!