The Book of Scottish Song/The Land o' Cakes

The Land o’ Cakes.

[John Imlah.—Air, "The Black Watch."]

The land o' cakes! the land o' cakes!
⁠O! monie a blessing on it;
Fair fa' the land o' hills, o' lakes,
⁠The bagpipe and the bonnet.
The countrie o' the kilted clans,
⁠That cowed the Dane and Roman;
Whose sons ha'e still the hearts an' han's
⁠To welcome friend or foeman.
⁠Then swell the sang baith loud and lang,
⁠Till the hills like aspens quiver;
⁠An' fill ye up, and toast the cup,
⁠The land o' cakes for ever.

Be scorn'd the Scot within whose heart
⁠Nae patriot flame is burning;
Wha kent nae pain frae hame to part,
⁠Nae joy when back returning.
Nae love for him in life shall yearn,
⁠Nae tears in death deplore him;
He hath nae coronach nor cairn,
⁠Wha shames the land that bore him.
⁠Then swell the sang, &c.

Fair flower the gowans in our glens,
⁠The heather on our mountains;
The blue bells deck our wizard dens,
⁠An' kiss our sparkling fountains.
On knock an' knowe, the whin an' broom,
⁠An' on the braes the breckan;
Not even Eden's flowers in bloom
⁠Could sweeter blossoms reckon.
⁠Then swell the sang, &c.

When flows our quegh within the glen,
⁠Within the hall our glasses;
We'll toast auld Scotland's honest men,
⁠Thrice o'er her bonnie lasses.
And deep we'll drink the Queen and Kirk,
⁠Our country and our freedom;
Wi' broad claymore an' Highland dirk,
⁠We're ready when they need them.
⁠Then swell the sang, &c.

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