Gayly to bourgeon,[124] and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,[125]
“Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu,[126] ho! ieroe!”
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripp’d every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moor’d in the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest’s shock,