For far owre lang the Scots hae bent/ An touched whichever forelock meant/ Position, job or favour lent

The gr’und owre which ancestors focht/ An generations fertile wrocht/ Is noo by speculators bocht/ In City steals,

For this timewise by far the worst/ As, sellin what wis held in trust,/ The votes were bocht an Peers imbursed/ Wi English gowd;

Mair troubles spring,/For James the Sixth wis noo the First/ An England’s King.

Gin but a hunner Scots remain,/ Usurpers we shall ay disdain

Scoored deep wi ice an vi’lent storm/In Strath an Glen,/They bred sweet quines o gracious form/An warlike men.

Thus Man, fresh risen frae the mud,/Wis cursed an stained wi Abel’s bluid