The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill, Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still; Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill, Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me! A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers-- The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!
'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight, When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might; 'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows, For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows! Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land-- On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand-- On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free, May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be! Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause; Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause; How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer, And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here? Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me! A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers-- The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell, The dear blue-bell for me! Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell For a' the flowers I see.
I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell, I hail thee, floweret fair; Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell, Or wavest mid mountain air-- Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks, Or fountain's flowery brink: Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks, The deer descend to drink. The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook Beside love's trystin' tree; I see thee bend to kiss the brook, That kindly kisseth thee. 'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen, Blithe noddin' o'er her brow, Meet marrows to her lovely een O' deep endearin' blue! The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
When e'enin's gowden curtains hing O'er moor and mountain gray, Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring A dirge to deein' day; But when the licht o' mornin' wakes The young dew-drooket flowers, I hear amid their merry peals, The mirth o' bridal hours! The Scotch blue-bell, &c.