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Far dearer to me are the hills of the North,
The land of blue mountains, the birth place of worth,
Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode,
Those wide-spreading glens, where no slave ever trode,
Where blooms the red heather and thistle see green.
Tho' rich be the soil, where blossoms the rose;
And bleak the high mountains, and cover'd with snows
Where blooms the red heather and thistle sae green;
Yet for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true,
And for courage so bold, which no foe could subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall'd our swains,
And lovely and true are the nymphs on our plains:
Where rises the thistle—the thistle sae green.
Far fam'd are our sires in the battles of yore,
And many the carnies that rise on our shore,
O'er the foes that invaded the thistle sae green;