Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory!
Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms then, and march in good order,
England shall many a day