The reward of his toil, do you ask it?
While he grovels all day on his face,
After all, when he reckons his basket,
He must count all his spoils by the brace.
“Leave the country of hedgerows and meadows,
Where the yellow marsh-marigold grows,
Where the oak and the elm cast their shadows,
Bid adieu to the Land of the Rose.
Come with me to the Land of the Thistle,
Where the waters run rugged and fleet,