Just gie us a griddle, a guid Cu’-ross griddle,
A neivefu’ o’ salt and the side o’ a burn,
We’ll feed like our fathers that never kent famine,
Wi’ meal and a griddle nae Scottie’ll mourn!
It’s no’ the day’s provand that makes ye the sodger,
It’s milk o’ your mother that fills ye wi’ steel;
And sae we’ll be couthy, and sae we’ll be canty,
As lang’s we hae bannocks o’ barley meal.
The Englishman’s kyte is a great tribulation,
He must hae kitchen, and puddins, and wine;
A pokefu’ o’ meal frae the Lothians for Donald,
A faggot o’ wood and a well, and he’ll dine!
Gie us the meal and we’ll soon find the collops,
But if they’re no in it, ye’ll no’ hear us squeal;
Our fathers before us were dour folk to meddle,
Wi’ naething but bannocks o’ barley meal.
For dance or for battle it’s best to be meagre,
Keep down the waist o’ ye, lank be your frame;
Endurance and elegance, youth, love and daring
Depend on the belt ye can put round your wame.
Praise God we were born where our food was to fight for,
The land o’ the barley’s the land o’ the leal;
It gave us but love and a song and a story,
And bred us on bannocks o’ barley meal.
Take to the hills on the wings o’ the mornin’,
Bed on the heather and breath o’ the gale;
Be stark as the Coolins and lean as the larch-tree,
And ‘gainst ye nae powers in hell will prevail.
It’s only yestreen we were poor as a piper,
We’ve lived near the bone and we’ve flourished on’t weel,
At the worst it’s just back to auld brose and brochan,
Our lassies’ll bake us the barley meal!
Bannocks o’ barley! Bannocks o’ barley!
Bannocks o’ barley meal!