The Thistle Bows Not to The Rose

Ken ye the hearts of the folk of the plaid? or wonder, as many of what they are made? They'll be hard as the Highlands, and cold as Loch Moi; The Scots hae a spirit ye nae can destroy Oh, born in the damp winds, and raised in the hills, Those who reach manhood have iron-like wills. By the reavers and the rovers and the brigands it's known A Scotsman looks after his Clan and his own.

Oh, the French ladies charm with their glances and sighs, But give me a lassie with fire in her eyes. Scots' girls are fiery, they're long and they're lean, And sharper of wit than a dirk it is keen. But lovin' the women's like jugglin' with knives; Too many at once, and men look to your lives; Yet, find ye but one girl and stay to her true She'll fight at your back and share in all you do.

Now some say we're vicious, and heartless and cruel, But a Scot's a survivor, and nobody's fool. We've weathered the ages, and the wages of strife, Betimes it takes hard men to lead a hard life. So pipe till the blood sings and drink liquid fire; Watch where you tread, lest you risk Scottish ire; And mark ye the words of the Mackintosh Clan.... "Touch not the cat --- without a gloved hand!"