Now, who the devil have we gotten for a king, But a wee bit German lord? When we went over to bring him home, He was digging in his backyard. Planting kale and laying leeks Without the hose and but the breeches And up his beggar's clothes lie hooks This wee bit German lord! And he's clappped down our master's chair. This wee bit German lord! He's brought in full his foreign trash, And planted it in our backyard! He's pulled the rose of English rascals, And broken the harp of Ireland's sons But o
ur thistle will stab his thumbs This wee bit German lord! Come up among our Highland Hills You wee bit German lord! See the Stewart's long kale thrive, They have planted it in our backyard. But if a stock you dare to pull, Or hold the yoking of a plough, We'll break your scepter over your mouth, You wee bit German lord! Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, Not fitting for a yard. The Northland thistles will not pull You wee bit German lord. For we've the trenching blades of war, We'll strip
you of your German gear You'll pass beneath the claymore's shear, You feckless German lord! Old Scotland, you are called a hole For nursing such a vermin! The very dogs in England's court, They bark and howl in German! So keep your dibble in your hand, Your spade but and your yard. For who the devil now rules your land, But a wee bit German lord!
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