The Regalia

We hae the crown without a head,
   The sceptre's but a hand, O;
The ancient warlike royal blade,
   Might be a willow wand, O!
Gin they had tongues to tell the wrangs
   That laid them useless by, a',
Fu' weel I wot, there's ne'er a Scot
   Could boast his cheek was dry a'.

CHORUS:  Then flourish thistle, flourish fair,
         Tho' ye've the crown nae langer,
         They'll hae the skaith that cross ye yet;
         Your jags grow aye the stranger.

O for a touch o' Warlock's wand,
   The bye-gane back to bring a',
And gie us ae lang simmer's day
   O' a true born Scottish King a';
We'd put the crwn upon his head,
   The sceptre in his hand a',
We'd rend the welkin wi' the shout
   Bruce and his native land a'. (Chorus)

The Thistle ance it flourish'd fair,
   An' grew maist like a tree a',
They've stunted down its stately tap,
   That roses might luik hie, a',
But tho' its head lies in the dust,
   The root is stout and steady;
The Thistle is the warrior yet,
   The rose its tocher'd Leddy. (Chorus)

The rose it blooms in safter soil,
   And strangers up could root it;
Aboon the grund he ne'er was fand
   That pu'd the Thistle out yet. (Chorus)

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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin