The Book of Scottish Song/The Land o' Bonnets Blue

The Land o’ Bonnets Blue.

[This song, to the tune of "Whistle o'er the lave o't," was written by a Scottish clergyman at Liverpool many years ago, and sung at an anniversary dinner held there in commemoration of the birth-day of Robert Burns.]

Noo, by my troth, ilk brither dear,
I trow ye re a' right welcome here;
We'll prove to mirth our title clear,
But winna prove the slave o't.
Here's to the land o' bonnets blue,
Tartan kilts and tarry woo';
O for a waught o' mountain dew,
To toast the guid and brave o't.

Dowf and dowie be his lot,
Whae'er denies a brither Scot,
Wi' helping han' to share a groat,
If want should roak' him crave o't.
Here's to the land, &c.

As for the honest feeling heart,
May poortith never mak' it smart;
But heaven its best o' bliss impart,
As muckle's he would have o't.
Here's to the land, &c.

The war'ly wretch may fume and fret,
And grip and pinch baith air and late;
But what o' earth at last he'll get
Will only be a grave o't.
Here's to the land, &c.

May we, when eild shall bleach our crown
White as our native thistle's down,
Mount high to life and light aboon,
There to enjoy the lave o't.
Here's to the land, &c.

Then fill a bowl, and while we drink,
Well rivet closer friendship's link,
Till joys run ower, and cares deep sink
Beneath the whirling wave o't.
Here's to the land, &c.

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