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While youth's warm tears are yet the meed Of martyr's death, or hero's deed, Shall brightly live, from age to age, Thy country's proudest heritage! 'Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, Thy deeds her mountain-winds are telling, Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave, Thy step hath hallowed rock and cave, And cold the wanderer's heart must be, That holds no converse there with thee! Yet, Scotland! to thy champion's shade, Still are thy grateful rites delayed! From lands of old renown, o'erspread With proud memorials of the dead, The trophied urn, the breathing bust, The pillar, guarding noble dust,