Because I dearly miss this place. I know, it isn’t my birthplace, nor my homeland. But I feel it speaks to me anyhow, through ancestors, and long times past.
Just a wee bit:
They tell me I gang whaur the tropic suns shine Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine; For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.
No, my spirit shall stray whaur the red heather grows! In the bonnie green glen whaur the mountain stream rows, 'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, ’Mang the graves o’ my sires, and the hearths o’ my kin.
“Bless a’ the Mackenzies an’ a’ the Mackenzie childer; their sons an’ son’s childer and their dochters for a thousan’ years to come.
Be Ye gracious an’ send doon mountains o’ snuff, an rivers of whiskey.
An’ oh lord send doon swords an’ pistels an’ daggers as monie as the sands on the seashore to kill the MacDonalds, the Clan Ranalds, and the Campbells.
An oh Lord, bless the wee coo, an’ make it a big coo.
An oh Lord bless the sucklin’ and make it a grand boar.
An oh Lord, bless the wee bairns, yon Angus, Alex an’ Bessie an’ Maggie an’ Florrie.
An oh Lord, build up a great wall between us an’ the Irish, an’ put broken bottles on the top, so they cannae come over.
An’ oh lord, if ye hae anything gude to gie, dunna gie it to the Irish, but gie it to your chosen people, the Scots, especially to the Clan Mackenzie an’ a’ their friends.
Glorious ye are for ever more.”—