[Scotland owns me, heart and head and hand
Scotland owns me, and I own no other land
I've got nae wish to die for Scotland
For that would nae gain a thing
But for every waking hour I'll live to see her free again
Freedom from what asks the quisling
Our English Lords are kind, aye
But while Scotland's laws are English made, I'll ken nae piece of mind
The quisling cries aloud again
See poverty is dead, there's hostels for the sick
And the poor, and old, aye all are fed
Dinna bite the hand that feeds you; pal, my faither always said
There's dole queue's for the living and death grants for the dead
Aye, if a man can find nae work, the dole m'aye provide
But can a man still be a man, if he's lost his pride
This land of was surely pockled for the ancient Celtic tribe
While mony a Scottish, Judas hand received a Saxon bribe
A land of heroes once we were, micht be again nae doubt
But quisling traitors, dank and foul, must still be weeded out
When Robert Bruce had claimed the throne and independence rocked
He wasn't King of Scotland, but created King of Scots
And so this land of Scotland cannot be owned by man
But borrowed by our ain folk, for length of one life span
Aye, Scotland owns me, heart and hand and head
And the sovereign soil of Scotland can claim me when I'm dead]
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