To this north land the misty hills do crown.
My rose-lipped daisy, lighting Scotland’s sod
With happy faces lifted up to God.
II.
God speed thee, sweet; my heart so singeth e’er,
As grows more dear among our poor thy fame
With every day. O Lady, true of name,
Giver of bread to all beneath thy care,
My royal-hearted queen and flawless pearl,
How shall my sin-stained prayers for thee avail,