Tìr nan raon 's nan glaicean uain',
   Tìr nam bruach 's nam bealach
Far 'm bi na tuinn a' tighinn gu tràigh
   'S far 'n dèan na crà-gheòidh fantainn.

A dh'ainneoin sneachda 's gaillinn fuair
   Tha geamhradh gruamach seachad
'S tha earrach, ùrachd sunnd na h-òig',
   Air tighinn le deòin gu'r cladach.

Nuair thig a' Bhealltainn oirnn mun cuairt
   Bidh guth na cuaich' sna gleannan
A' tighinn air sgéith á tìrean céin'
   'S gun dèan i sgeul dhuinn aithris.

Bheir toit an fhraoich air ais ar n-òig'
   Is iomadh spòrs bha tlachdmhor,
A' dèanamh falaisg feadh nam beann,
   A' fuadach greann is airtneal.

Nuair a thig an t-Sultuin àigh
   Gur àlainn bhios na seallaidh,
Bidh fraoch nam beann 'na uile ghlòir
   Le iomadh seòrsa dhathan.

Bidh uaine 's purpur 'm measg a-chéil',
   A' seudachadh 'nam maise
Mar bhogha-frois sa mhadainn thràth
   A thig tro sgàil nam frasan.

Bidh smeòrach ghlas air cnuic a' seinn,
   Tha aoibhneas 'na cuid caithreim;
Bidh seillean srianach triall le srann
   Bho fhlùr gu plannd 'na dheannaibh.

Bidh fear na speal' air achadh buain,
   Is sruth bho ghruaidh de dh'fhallas,
Bidh ceangladair gu trang 'na dhéidh
   Cur sguab gu réidh sna bannan.

Bidh fear le sùist a' froiseadh dhias
   'S an sìol gun téid a' bharraich;
Is ás a-sin chun an damh-sùirn
   'S bhon t-sùirn chun an àth-bhracha.

Ma thig an t-saothair thoirt gu crìoch
   Bidh iomadh nì ri tachairt -
Bidh am muileann is a' bhrà
   Gu làidir cur nan car dhiubh.

Nuair théid a h-uile rud air dòigh
   Bidh iomadh seòrs' am pailteas -
Biadh is aran air a' bhòrd
   Is deur de stòr na bracha.

The Land of the Fields

Land of the fields and the pale-green hollows,
   Land of the passes and braes
Where the waves roll in upon the beaches
   And the shelduck fly in to stay.

In spite of the snow and the chilly storm
   Surly winter has now gone by
And spring, renewal of youthful joy,
   Has come willingly to our shore.

When Beltane comes around to us
   The cuckoo's heard in the valleys
As she comes on the wing from distant lands
   In order to tell us her story.

The smoke of the heather brings back our youth
   With its many pleasant diversions,
Making the muirburn around the hills,
   Expelling glooms and depressions.

When glorious September comes
   There are beautiful sights to see,
Mountain heather in all its glory
   With many kinds of colours.

Pale green and purple intermingle,
   Glistening in their beauty
Like an early morning rainbow
   Emerging from a veil of showers.

A grey thrush sings upon the hills,
   There's joy in her exulting;
A striped bee travels with a buzz
   From flower to plant in hurriedness.

The scyther's on the harvest field,
   Sweat streaming down his cheek,
The binder's busy in his wake
   Neatly tying up the sheaves.

A man beats ears of corn with a flail
   Till the crop has turned into seed;
From there it goes to the oven joist
   And from the oven to the malt-kiln.

If the work's brought to an end
   Many things must happen -
The mill and the quern
   Will be strongly turning.

When everything's in order
   There'll be many kinds of plenty -
Food and bread upon the table
   And a drop of malted produce.