His song is the song of the windy moor,
And the humming pipes of the squirling din;
And his love is the love of the shieling door,
And the smell of the smoking peat within.
And nohap how much of the alien blood
Is crossed with the strain that holds him fast,
Mid the world’s great ill and the world’s great good,
He yearns to the Mother of men at last.
For there’s something strong and something true
In the wind where the sprig of heather is blown;
And something great in the blood so blue,
That makes him stand like a man alone.
Yea, give him the road and loose him free,
He sets his teeth to the fiercest blast,
For there’s never a toil in a far countrie,
But a Scotsman tackles it hard and fast.
He builds their commerce, he sings their songs,
He weaves their creeds with an iron twist,
And making of laws or righting of wrongs,
He grinds it all as the Scotsman’s grist.
Yea, there by crag and moor she stands,
This mother of half a world’s great men,
And out of the heart of her haunted lands
She calls her children home again.
And over the glens and the wild sea floors
She peers so still as she counts her cost,
With the whaups low calling over the moors,
“Woe, woe, for the great ones she hath lost.”
[2] Colin Campbell, Hero of Lucknow.
[3] Sir Donald Mackay, first Lord Reay, whose Mackay Dutch regiment was famous in the thirty years war.