He came and went from Scotland as many had done before,

Leaving the motherland poorer to enrich some foreign shore.

Cameron in Moscow, Carnegie in Detroit, Livingstone in Africa,

McKenzie asserting his right.

​

To span the wastes of Newfoundland or Candles Australian bush,

Taking their wee bit of Scotland to the farthest frontiest push.

Or staying at home and letting the mind over boundless vistas range,

Which was all sorts of things which were beautiful and strange.

​

The Rev Bell's mechanical reaper, Kirkpatrick McMillan's bike,

Logie Baird's television, we'd never seen the like.

Then there was Napier's logarithms, Adam Smith's "Wealth of a Nation",

Who'd have thought that a wee place like ours could rise in such

estimation.

​

Even Beaverbrook came from Scottish stock, William Murdoch got gas

from coal,

Simpson discovered chloroform, but couldn't tell a soul.

There was Lister at Glasgow's Royal, Lord Kelvin too for his part,

And some at home, revered abroad, Rennie Mackintosh and his art.

​

And names we needn't mention, like Stevenson and Burns,

And Scott and poor wee McGonigle as the page of history turns.

Till today, I may say, it goes on its way, it carries the record

on,

To Shankley, Jock Stein, Bremner and Law, they'll be remembered when

we're gone.

​

For it's sure as the Bank of England, which was founded by a Scot.

That our Scottish men and women are the best bit of Scotland we've

got.

​

Except when we've had a bit too much of that wee bit of Scotch we

brew,

Then there's little telling either way - what we might say or do.

​

But wha's like us, damn few in name or deed, so I give you the people

of Scotland and long may they keep the heid.

And when at the end of that long long road, you'll reach your Highland

heaven, you'll find that god is a Scotsman, and all will be forgiven.

​