And the bonniest rose that in Scotland blows
Hangs high on the topmost bough.
‘The violet peeps from its sheltering brake,
The lily lies low on the lea,
While the bloom is on ye may touch and take,
For the humble are frank and free;
But the garden’s pride wears a thorn at her side,
It has prick’d to the bone ere now,
And the noblest rose that in Scotland blows
Hangs high on the topmost bough.