My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.

Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above: For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!

What exile from his country is able to escape from himself? [Lat., Patriae quis exul se quoque fugit.]

My dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!