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
For Wallace, michty man o steel,/ Gerred castles faw an toonships reel/ When, in the nicht, he’d silent steal/ An danger daur,
No for the first time nor the last/ Withoot the people bein asked,/ Wis Scotia rendered tae the blast/ That Fates betide,
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
But Man, an Ape withoot a tail,/Imprisoned in his earthly jail/Withoot a freend tae share his bail/Could no survive,