Second Gathering of the Caledonian Club on Government Grounds, August, 1864

Upon some mount that greets the sky — Ben Levis, Lomond, or Lodi; You may be sure ‘twas unco high!

From such a place, Old Caledonia cast her eye

O’er Scotia’s race.

That evening she had supp’d her brose With mountain dew, where heather grows; Then climb’d the mount, in tartan clothes, To Scotland dear; Took sneeshen twice, and wip’d her nose, Her sight to clear.

The leesome prospect far and wide, The mountain, flood, and border side She saw, where Scots had oft defied The Southern’s raids, And vanquished England’s martial pride, With keener blades.

But Scotland brave no longer fights With England, for her wrongs or rights Peace friendly intercourse invites,

And England’s rose With Scotland’s downy burr unites

And sweeter blows.

Still, Caledonia cannot tine The memories of “Auld Lang Syne”; Her noble, long, illustrious line Of heroes bold, Whose names upon her annals shine, By fame enroll’d.

She rais’d her voice, she wav’d her wand, And bade her sons before her stand; Then, pointing to the prospect grand, Around, below, “Ye’ll not,” she said, “forget this land Where’er you go.”

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