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