The low mournful sound of skirling bagpipes
And the colourful whirl of tartan kilt
Yet much soulful crying on that morning
For previous nights beer, that had been spilt.

Such deep swirling sound of the constant pipes
On top of this fine Scottish hill so steep
Men were standing with their drawn steel claymores
They stood in mud deep covering their feet.

To fore rode Brave Heart of the Wallace clan
Urging his brave men for the coming fight
Then a sound of fury arose from ranks
As the English force then rode into sight.

Clash of titanic force fearsome indeed
And the blood ran thick and very fast
Such was the venomous feeling that day
The battle so fierce, it just could not last.

Flowers of Scotland lay beaten and dead
And the Wallace was soon taken as whole
English then drew and quartered the man
But today, the Scots still worship his soul.