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.