From the brown crest of Newark its summons extending
Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;
And each forester blithe, from hi mountain descending
Bounds light o'er the heater to join in the game
Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her
She has blaz'd over Ettrick eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her
With heart and with hand, like our fathers of yore

When the southern invader spread waste and disorder
At the glance of her crescent he paused and withdrew;
For around them were marshall'd the pride of the border
The flowers of the Forest, the bands of Buccleuch
A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her
No mail glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure
To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun
And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure
To the lads that have lost, and the lads that have won
May the forest still flourish, both borough and landward
>From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle-nook;
And huzza! My brave hearts, for Buccleuch and his standard
For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke