Now the summer's in prime
Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
read more

Now the summer's in prime
Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming.
To own dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;
True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.
Are read more

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;
True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.
Are they not then in strictest reason clear,
Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

That knuckle-end of England--that land of Calvin, oat-cakes, and
sulphur.

That knuckle-end of England--that land of Calvin, oat-cakes, and
sulphur.

In all my travels I never met with any one Scotchman but what was
a man of sense. I read more

In all my travels I never met with any one Scotchman but what was
a man of sense. I believe everybody of that country that has
any, leaves it as fast as they can.

The noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high-road
that leads him to England.

The noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high-road
that leads him to England.

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;-
If there's a hole in read more

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;-
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it:
A chield's amang you takin notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it.

Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom
Nor forced him wander, but confine him home.

Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom
Nor forced him wander, but confine him home.

Give me but one hour of Scotland,
Let me see it ere I die.
- William read more

Give me but one hour of Scotland,
Let me see it ere I die.
- William Edmondstoune Aytoun,

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy read more

O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,
That knits me to thy rugged strand!