Will Future Ages Believe That Such Stupid

Land Of My Sires! What Mortal Hand Can E'er Untie The Filial Band That Knits Me To Thy Rugged Strand!

My Hope, My Heaven, My Trust Must Be, My Gentle Guide, In Following Thee.

A Christmas Gambol Oft Could Cheer The Poor Man's Heart Through Half The Year.

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

Come One, Come All! This Rock Shall Fly From Its Firm Base, As Soon As I.