Now wauk, ye ancient, sleeping stane!
It’s time you’re dusted aff
and cairted doon tae London toon
tae play your pairt – wi staff
and sceptre, orb and gowden croon
you’ll tak your place and bring
the wecht o’ heavy centuries
amid the gaudy bling.
Lang syne, the royal hurdies wid
hae rested on your tap,
but hud your hairt, that silken erse
these days demands a gap
so it can sit in comfort on
a velvet-padded throne;
sae you’ll be tucked doon, oot o sicht
while a’ the world looks on.
And when the pomp and pageant’s done
and you return tae rest,
that dowp will surely find itsel
anither gilded nest.
This servant king will never want,
however lang his reign,
while fowk that work tae mak the gowd
will ever sit on stane.
new boots and pantisocracies 