From Dumfries and the Cheviots up North to John o’Groats,
there lies a land of moors and lochs, of peat and grass and oats,
the land where the Atlantic sends his fog and storm and rain,
and little crofters moiled on windswept farmlands without gain,
the land where Harris weavers still produce their tweeds like old,
and from the North sea fields the oil and gas flow in like gold.
The land that gave us uisghe beatha, comfort for the soul,
where Celtic and the Rangers fight their battles for a goal,
where Hadrian the emperor once built his great divide,
and on Culloden Moor the hope for independence died.
Where in the freezing Cairngorms still a herd of reindeer roams
a land of haunted castles, land of leprechauns and gnomes,
where thistles grow abundant, as a symbol for the land,
and where one time Sean Connery sure will be president.
Where once The Brahan Seer his prophetic Gaelic spoke,
and on the isle of Islay the distilleries still smoke,
where blacksmiths marry man and wife, far South in Gretna Green,
and in Loch Ness a prehistoric monster can be seen,
where on the Outer Hebrides the old Celtic language thrives,
and on the Shetlands some old Viking folklore still survives.
Where Holyrood and Balmoral still stand with towering walls,
and over lovely Edinburgh the sound of bagpipes calls,
a land fierce as an eagle and yet gentle as a dove,
oh yes, that’s Scotland sure, my lass, the only land I love !
