What Scotchman is there that would not be riled,
If he was bound for life to stick close to you?
No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor,
You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour.
O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles;
O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,—
Of lofty mountains and of very high hills,
Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant
O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels,
To sound thy praises does our hero pant;