Poet-Magician, who, with marvellous hand,
Taught Scotland's sons the witchery of song,
Whose tongue — the outlet for a spirit strong —
Sung rapturously of love and native land
In numbers wild, inspiriting, and grand;
Thy native hills re-echo still thy strain,
Resounding loud o'er ceaseless, moving main
To wheresoe'er a Scottish son doth stand!

Ah! matchless prince of northern minstrelsy,
Whose bosom heaved with ecstasy divine,
O that more bards could strike the lyre like thee,
Or that one half thy priceless gift were mine:
Then might I trust with some just hope to be
Far nearer that deep pulsing thrill of thine.