And though, unto the powers that be
A loyal lay she'll sing, Auld Scotland's soul will bend to nane
Save Heaven's own glorious King.
THE HEATHERBELL.
Old England wreathes her gorgeous rose
With minstrelsy sublime; The flower to Highland hearts most dear,
I fain would praise in rhyme.
It bloometh not in palace grounds,
But on the rough hillside; It boasteth no patrician birth,
It is a people's pride.
Where streamlet leaves its rocky bed
To warble o'er the plain; Where cataract leaps forth in foam,
On to the seething main.
Down-trampled on the serried field
Where love from love was riven; Where patriot soul was offered up
As incense unto Heaven.
Where young hearts meet at eventide,
The old, old tale to tell; In shady nooks, by purling brooks,
There blooms the sweet harebell.