Hail Land Of My Fathers

Hail, land of my fathers! I stand on thy shore
'Neath the broad-fronted bluffs of thy granite once more
Old Scotland, my mother, the rugged, the bare
That reared me with breath of the strong mountain air
No more shall I roam where soft indolence lies
'Neath the cloudless repose of the featureless skies
But where the white mist sweeps the red-furrowed scaur
I will fight with the storm and grow strong by the war!

What boots all the blaze of the sky and the billow
Where manhood must rot on inglorious pillow?
'Tis the blossom that blooms from the taint of the grave
'Tis the glitter that gildeth the bonds of the slave
But Scotland, stern mother, for struggle and toil
Thou trainest thy children on hard, rocky soil
And thy stiff-purposed heroes go conquering forth
With the strength that is bred by the blasts of the north.

Hail, Scotland, my mother! and welcome the day
When again I shall brush the bright dew from the brae
And, light as a bird, give my foot to the heather
My hand to my staff, and my face to the weather
Then climb to the peak where the ptarmigan flies
Or stand by the linn where the salmon will rise
And vow never more with blind venture to roam
From the strong land that bore me my own Scottish home.