From the bonnie Highlands In days of long ago, There was a mighty warrior, A true local hero; From the clan MacArgyle, Since Angus was a tot, The all knew that when he grew He would be a great Scot. His kilt was sewn of flannel, That tartan in design, And in his hand he'd wield a sword That flashed in rain or shine; When he charged the enemy, He'd run off every sot, The lassies found him heavenly, For he was a great Scot. And when a dragon scared them From far beyond the hill, He went off to face it, Alone, just for the thrill. He'd bring it's head to show them He'd bested it or not, And when he threw it one the ground, They called him a great Scot. He could dance the Highland Fling, While playing his bagpipes, And built monuments in a ring Of stone, three different types; He cooked haggis like a pro, I wish I had a pot, They say the mutton was "just so," From the kiln of this great Scot. He'd mend and sew his own kilt, But quaff mead like a man, If he could save his pence or gelt, It'd stay in his sporran, He could find a bargain, aye, On everything he bought, Yet he needed very little, The sign of a great Scot. He would fight all Ireland, If not for the sea, And when he hollered from the shore, They'd scatter and they'd flee; He challenged every man in Wales, (He'd boast without a thought), And he brought all three down one day, Violent, even for a Scot. I know what you be wondering, Whereon legends are built, Just was does a Scotsman wear, Underneath his kilt? I'm about to lock me teeth, But leave you with this lot: He wore nothing underneath, And he was a great Scot.

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