The Noble Scottish Game

The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,
The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';
He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,
He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;
He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,
He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;
He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,
An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!

The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,
An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;
The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;
The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;
The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,
Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;
The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,
When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!

It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,
It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;
The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,
When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.
The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom
At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;
The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;
The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,
Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,
An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,
Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',
To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.
When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame--
There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!