PATRIOTIC TOASTS
Reading edition
A health to the friends of Caledonia.
But let ilk man pursue his plan, Let all have liberty of soul, Let every man stand by his clan And slavery have no control.
Be whaur I like, or gang whaur I like, I see nobody hae the sense and manners that the folk o’ our ain town hae!
Brave Caledonia, the chief of her line.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land; Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering from a foreign strand?
Caledonia: the nursery of learning and the birthplace of heroes.
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, Where once beneath a monarch’s feet Sat legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs! From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs, As on the bank of Ayr I stray’d, And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade.
Give me my Scotia’s darling sons Sae kind and free. O! but I loe their hamely tweils, Their auld sweet songs and foursome reels, Their heathery hills, their glens and biels Sae snug and warm, Rare honest independent chiels Wha dread nae harm.
Green be thy hills, auld Scotia, And fertile be thy plains, man; Where friendship, love, and freedom reign, To bless our nymphs and swains, man.
Here’s to dear Scotland, its crags and its glens! The bonniest country that e’er mon micht ken! The land where the lads and the lassies all learns To play golf, to drink high-balls and read Bobby Burns.
Here’s to the land of bonnets blue, Tartan kilts and tarry woat, O for a waught of mountain dew, To toast the guid and brave o’t.
Kyle for a man, Carrick for a coo, Cunningham for butter and cheese And Galloway for woo.
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
O Scotland! it was a gracious act in thee To build a monument beside the sea To Lincoln, to him who wrote the word, And slavery’s shackles fell.
Old Scotia, loved at home, revered abroad.
Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills And wave thy heaths with blossoms red.
Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth, Invincible, romantic Scotia’s shore! Pledge to the memory of departed worth, And first, among the brave, remember Moore. And be it deemed not wrong that name to give In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh, Who would not envy such a Moore to live— And died he not as heroes wish to die? Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal, To us his bright career too short was given, Yet, in a mighty cause, his phoenix soul Rose, on the flames of victory, to heaven. Now oft (if beats on subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him! now, oft, on far Corunna’s plain, Shall British exiles weep upon his urn! Peace to the mighty dead! our bosom-thanks On sprightlier strains, the living may inspire! Joy to the chief that leads old Scotia’s ranks, Of Roman garb, and more than Roman fire. Triumphant, be the thistle still unfurled! Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquer’d foes! Joy to the bard, on ancient Egypt’s coast, Whose valour tamed France’s proud tri-colour, And wrenched the banner from her bravest host, Baptized Invincible in Austria’s gore. Joy for the day on red Vemeira’s strand, When bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia’s host, a Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and, foremost, closed. Is there a son of generous England here, Or fervid Erin? he with us shall join To pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine. Types of a race who shall the invader scorn, As rocks resist the billows round their shore,— Types of a race who shall, to time unborn, Their country leave unconquered, as of yore!
Scotland and the products of its soil.
Scotland: the birthplace of valour—the country of worth.
Scotland, my auld, respected Mither! Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather, Ye tine your dam; (Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!) Tak’ aff your dram!
Scotland’s bonnie boys.
Scottish heroes; and may their fame live for ever.
Scottish learning and Scottish universities.
So may old Scotia’s darling hope, Your little angel band, Spring, like their father’s, up to prop Their honour’d native land! So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—“Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonnie lasses!”
The land o’ the leal.
The tartan plaid.
The thistle of Scotia!—the thistle sae green!
Then here’s may Scotland ne’er fa’ down, A cringing coward doggie, But bauldly stand and bang the loon, Wha’d reave her of her coggie.
To the land o’ cakes.
To the banners of Scotland—long may they wave.
To the memory of the Heroes and Heroines of Bonnie Scotland.
To the memory of Wallace and the Scots who hae wi’ Wallace bled.
We toast ye, the nicht, the hill and the heather, The lad o’ the bonnet, the plaid and the feather, The land o’ the mountain, the stream and the river, The land o’ our ancestors, Scotland for ever!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love!