vels in madness on high;
For there it has might that can war with its power,
In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.

I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;
I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;
But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms--
Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!

OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE!

Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas,
Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze;
Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high,
Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

O name not the land where the olive-tree grows,
Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose;
But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head,
O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed.
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold,
Who wielded their brands in the battles of old,
Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land,
With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

FLOWERS OF SUMMER.

Flowers of summer, sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are fondly singing
In their gay and jocund mirth:
Streams are pouring from their fountains,
Echoing through each rugged dell;
Heather bells adorn the mountains,
Bid the city, love! farewell.

See the boughs are rich in blossom,
Through each sunlit, silent grove;
Cast all sorrow from thy bosom--
Freedom is the soul of love!