In the garb of old Gaul, and the fire of old Rome, from the heath cover'd Mountains of Scotia we come; On those mountains the Romans attempted to reign;, But our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain. Though no city nor court our Garment approve, Twas presented by Mars, at a Senate to Jove; and when Pallas observ'd, at a ball, 'twou'd look odd, Mars receiv'd from his Venus a smile and a nod. No intemperate tables our Sinues Unbrace, Nor French faith Nor fopery our Country disgrace, Still the hoarse-sounding pipe Breathes the true martial Strain and our Hearts still the true Scottish valour retain. 'Twas with anguish and woe, that of late we beheld Rebel forces Rush down from the Hills to the field: For our hearts are devoted to George and the Laws, and we'll fight, like true Britons, in Libertys cause. But still, at a distance from Britons lov'd Shore May her foes, in Confusion, her Mercy implore! May her Coasts ne'er with foreign invasions be spread nor detested rebellion again Raise its head! May the fury of Party and faction long cease! May our Councils be wise, and our Commerce increase! And, in Scotia's Cold Climate, may each of us find, That our friends Still prove true, and our beauties prove kind.
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