I Cannot Tell How The Truth May

Warriors! And Where Are Warriors Found, If Not On Martial Britain's Ground? And Who, When Waked With Note Of Fire, Love More Than They The British Lyre?

You Will, I Trust, Resemble A Forest Plant, Which Has Indeed, By Some Accident, Been Brought Up In The Greenhouse, And Thus Rendered Delicate And Effeminate, But Which Regains Its Native Firmness And Tenacity, When Exposed For A Season To The Winter Air.

Still From The Sire The Son Shall Hear Of The Stern Strife, And Carnage Drear, Of Flodden's Fatal Field, When Shiver'd Was Fair Scotland's Spear, And Broken Was Her Shield!

My Foot Is On My Native Heath, And My Name Is Macgregor.

Is Death The Last Sleep? No, It Is The Last And Final Awakening.