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G. R. Planche
Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Over moor and mountain hath passed the war-sign;
The pibroch is pealing, pealing, pealing;
Who heeds not the summons is nae son o' thine.
The clans they are gathering, gathering, gathering,
The clans they are gathering by loch and by sea.
The banners they are flying, flying, flying,
The banners they are flying to lead to victory.
Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Charge as you've charged in the days o' lang-syne;
Sound to the onset, the onset, the onset,
He who but falters is nae son o' thine.
Sheathe the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Sheathe the sword, Scotland, for dimm'd is its shine.
The foemen are fleeing, fleeing, fleeing,
And who kens nae mercy is nae son o' thine!
The struggle is over, over, over,
The struggle is over! - the victory won!
There are tears for the fallen, the fallen, the fallen,
And glory for all who their duty have done!
Sheathe the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
With thy loved thistle new laurels entwine;
Time shall ne'er part them, part them, part them,
But hand down the garland to each son o' thine. |
