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O SCOTIA! my dear native land,
And dearest to my heart!
Thou art the seat of liberty,
Of science, and of art.

In chivalry excell❜d by none
The page of history shows:
Through thy sons' veins, untaintedly,
The blood of heroes flows.

Full oft the arms of tyranny
Thy freedom have assail'd;
But still such foolish, vain attempts,
Of wish'd success have fail'd;


And still must fail-for Scotia's sons
May heap the gory field,
But Caledonians never will
Give up their rights, and yield.

Thy peasants, in their lowly homes,
Can happy rest, and sing;
With fewer cares to rack their minds,
And free as is their King.

But yet a nobler privilege,

Thrice happy land! is thine-
Thou own'st religious liberty,
A blessing, sure, Divine.

For this thy worthies oft have trode
The waste and desart wild;
Ill clothed, worse fed, lonely, and sad,
From home and friends exiled.

For this thy holy martyrs sang
Amid their death-hot flame;
And others had their heads exposed,
As spectacles of shame:

Of shame, indeed!-eternal shame
Unto those fiends of hell,
By whose blood-thirsty villany
These Christian heroes fell.

They were but men, nor faultless were:
To man it is not given

To reach perfection's eminence
Before he reaches heaven.

But yet by every Scot, who feels
The love of being free
From civil and religious thrall,
Their names revered shall be.

Alas! there live that are named Scots,
Who dally with their fame,
Like as unthinking children play
With some rare, precious gem.

Reviling oft undoes itself,

And brings its own reward; Making the object it would hurt To meet with more regard.

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