Dear friends, he began, there is no timetable

For happiness; it moves, I think, according

To rules of its own. When I was a boy

I thought I’d be happy tomorrow,

As a young man I thought it would be

Next week; last month I thought

It would be never. Today, I know

It is now. Each of us, I suppose,

Has at least one person who thinks

That our manifest faults are worth ignoring;

I have found mine, and am content.

When we are far from home

We think of home; I, who am happy today,

Think of those in Scotland for whom

Such happiness might seem elusive;

May such powers as listen to what is said

By people like me, in olive groves like this,

Grant to those who want friendship a friend,

Attend to the needs of those who have little,

Hold the hand of those who are lonely,

Allow Scotland, our place, our country,

To sing in the language of her choosing

That song she has always wanted to sing,

Which is of brotherhood, which is of love.