Oh what have we poor Scotties done to be belittled by the Sun,
And ghettoed by our native host, the editor of the Sunday Post?
It’s no wonder that we feel so ratty,
When lunch is always Mince and Tattie,
And teatime fiends do come and rag us
As we sit down to chips and haggis.
In clothing stores we’re served by Martin,
Who kits us out in scarlet tartan,
Assisted by his side-kick, Milt,
Who does insist we wear the kilt,
And folk at parties think it’s funny
To say how tight we are with money
And Harry Lauder jokes abound,
On how we’ll never spend a pound,
And even Lairds admit their roots,
Were spiky lads in tackity boots.
Oh send Proud Edward home to Crewe,
And put an end to this to-do,
We never dress in scarlet tartan
And ne’er drink whiskey from the carton.
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