⁠By the light of the moon,
⁠The bonnie harvest moon,
On the beautiful banks of the Clyde,
⁠I have wander'd along,
⁠And sung the Highland song
Which my sire oft sang by his own burn-side.
⁠For, though born ayont the Tweed,
⁠I love the meanest weed
That has sprung by the heather in its pride;
⁠And earth owns no dearer spot
⁠Than the ivy-mantled cot,
Where the moments lightly pass with my bonnie Lowland bride.

⁠Caledonia, with thee,
⁠My bosom boundeth free;
And, wherever my footsteps may roam,
⁠The lowland valley still,
⁠Or the heather-blooming hill,
Shall the dear haven be of my heart's best home.
⁠To that loved and gentle form,
⁠Which hath braved me with life's storm,
I will sing of our cottage by the Clyde,
⁠Till the joyous smile she wore,
⁠In the happy days of yore,
Shall beam upon the brow of my bonnie Lowland bride.