Where are those Scots whose lives, thought cheap, bought dear?
Who Percy’s knights fell foul at Clatteringshaw
That Edward’s Bohun sneered at as cattle before being gored by the bull.
Where are those Scots who dared believe we are a nation state;
A people’s realm and sovereign for all time?
Where are those Scots whose principles, philosophy and fore sight
Unseated Crowns, raised liberty’s song, revolutionised and freed nations?
Yet home were craven, cowed; slithering to suck the hind teat
Of Westminster’s Empire building whore,
Selling Scotland cheap, for their own back pocket.
Where are those Scots whose spirit cries foul at Westminster’s false chimera?
No longer victims waiting idly by to be mugged of oil and other wealth
By London’s City; impoverished by neo-liberal whim, affectation and ignorance.
Whose rage at Labour’s pass, raise fire and brimstone worthy of Maclean or Maxton,
Seeking socialism of care and people - not greed, patronage and self interest.
I fear they are gone, leaving liberty to the empty hills, ghost clachans, wind swept crags -
Of “Granny’s Heilan’ Hame”, short bread tins, kilts and Walter Scott’s romantic pap:
Lost in their skinny lattes and thinner thoughts of ermine, gong’s or knighthoods
Still snivelling Westminster’s tune - too wee, too poor, too stupid - we’re lucky
London still wants us; so touch your Jockanese forelocks southerly and be happy.
Scotland’s declaration to the world can not find one, let lone one hundred, to hold
And cry so long and loud, the call held dear for seven hundred years of Scotland’s liberties;
“But for freedom - for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.”
No honest man - Aye, there’s the rub and irony too - the truth hit home from 1320.
So Calman’s poison wins where Longshanks’ army failed an’ we’re aw deid.
Who Percy’s knights fell foul at Clatteringshaw
That Edward’s Bohun sneered at as cattle before being gored by the bull.
Where are those Scots who dared believe we are a nation state;
A people’s realm and sovereign for all time?
Where are those Scots whose principles, philosophy and fore sight
Unseated Crowns, raised liberty’s song, revolutionised and freed nations?
Yet home were craven, cowed; slithering to suck the hind teat
Of Westminster’s Empire building whore,
Selling Scotland cheap, for their own back pocket.
Where are those Scots whose spirit cries foul at Westminster’s false chimera?
No longer victims waiting idly by to be mugged of oil and other wealth
By London’s City; impoverished by neo-liberal whim, affectation and ignorance.
Whose rage at Labour’s pass, raise fire and brimstone worthy of Maclean or Maxton,
Seeking socialism of care and people - not greed, patronage and self interest.
I fear they are gone, leaving liberty to the empty hills, ghost clachans, wind swept crags -
Of “Granny’s Heilan’ Hame”, short bread tins, kilts and Walter Scott’s romantic pap:
Lost in their skinny lattes and thinner thoughts of ermine, gong’s or knighthoods
Still snivelling Westminster’s tune - too wee, too poor, too stupid - we’re lucky
London still wants us; so touch your Jockanese forelocks southerly and be happy.
Scotland’s declaration to the world can not find one, let lone one hundred, to hold
And cry so long and loud, the call held dear for seven hundred years of Scotland’s liberties;
“But for freedom - for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.”
No honest man - Aye, there’s the rub and irony too - the truth hit home from 1320.
So Calman’s poison wins where Longshanks’ army failed an’ we’re aw deid.
