Two-hundred years being wrapped snug in tartan Made to sing 'God Save the Queen’ Your forefathers say 'Be a proud son of Scotland’ But in this day and age what do they mean? We're all rebels and princes, fighters and lovers Feeling on top of the world Oh the few who will feature on the pages of schoolbooks And the many who'll never be heard We're solving the mystery without any proof Oh enough of your lies, won't you tell me the truth? Are we up to our necks in the blood of old Jock Thompson's bairns? All the sugar, tobacco, cotton, molasses Looking at history through rose tinted glasses Nemo me impune lacessit, and other such joys Be you Scottish or British or English or Irish Tick the box for your colour or creed Cultural appropriation on a packet of biscuits is the only real reference I need From Ossian's diaries to the Highland Societies Inclusion behind padlocked doors But the word 'Caledonian' was coined by the Romans Just to mark out the mad bastards up north Is it 'yes' is it 'no', is it getting beaten 3-0 at home? Is it a pregnant teenager at the end of a phone? But she hasn't the time to read 'Rob Roy' nor ‘Ivanhoe' Nothing to do so go out for a pint eh? The blue-blooded bowler hats shout 1690 Next generation take heed and sharpen their swords All suited and booted all dressed to the nines In a Royal Stewart kilt from some factory line 'Made in China' hiding away under a plastic cockade Is it brains over brawn? Is it link over lorne? Is it choosing the right football team? The echoed frustrations in a half-empty Hampden With Gemmill, Dalgleish and Gordon McQueen How do you feel about god or the de’il? The 'Flowers of the Forest' for sale? The young ones will pays for their parents’ transgressions While the old ones rehash the old tales Night by 15:30, cold mince and tatties A wink to the lads and a toast to the lassies A night at 'Her Majesty's Pleasure' to round it all off The blue and the white on a sky of slate grey The grovelling politicos with nothing to say But it's hard getting by given neither the time nor the day Hey for 'Bobbin' John', hey for cockolorum Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham Oh well you take the high road and I'll take the low The 'Skyscraper Wean's' got nowhere to go Now the blue paint's all smudged on the face Of the star of the show