O flour of Scotland
When will we see
Your like again?

That made such fine scones
In every but and ben
Frae Ayr to Wemyss Bay
And up the Fairy Glen...

For scones can still rise now
And be devoured again
By Edward's army
Them sweet-toothed Englishmen
And send them homeward
To stink again.

Needs a bit of work, I think