No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace,
No luxurious tables enervate our race;
Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true martial strain,
So do we the old Scottish valour retain.
As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows,
So are we enraged when we rush on our foes:
We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks,
Dash the force of our foes with our thundering strokes.
We’re tall as the oak on the mount of the vale,
Are swift as the roe which the hound doth assail,