A ghost sails by Scotland's isles, And looks at a nation in chains A spirit broken, a tongue not spoken, Just brave defiance remains. A rose is still a rose when not in bloom, To say so is like to say that grass is green, But when something of beauty is not in flower, The fact that it is a flower often is not seen.
Each chieftain looks after his garden, His gardens the kingdom he hopes to expand, He swears loyalty to any king, Bears none to his native land. Roses have thorns as well as blooms, Then grasped can give pain, make us bleed, So it is so, when one once we loved, Speaks to hurt, or does against you a deed.
The people pure, their leaders not sure, Declare allegiance to one and all, Be you from Norway or from France, When you upon them call. That they are still the flower let us not forget, And flowers cannot all the time be in flower, But when they do bloom, how lovely the display, To be with such a bloom on their hour!
The last of the Stewart kings, Who fought with Highland men, Looks on his land with tears in his eyes, Knows he'll never rule there again!