Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood,
Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,
And her young ones are rocked on high Cairngorm?
Know’st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave
Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave?
Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,
And their spirits are light as their actions are free?
Know’st thou the land where the sun’s lingering ray
Streaks with gold the horizon, till dawns the new day,
Whilst the cold feeble beam which he sheds on the sight