For valour’s throb no more obeys the call,
Than laughs the eye with mirthful jollity
When the pipe sounds at village festival.
Such power, loved pibroch, has thy magic minstrelsy.
Thee from her hall let heartless fashion spurn,
For softer warblings of the Italian string;
Let luxury or wantoned dalliance burn,
Yet into hearts that round our Scotia cling,
With thy dear lays shall patriot raptures spring;
And he who can o’er faded glory sigh,