The heather burns with purple fire,
A land that dreams, a land that’s dire.
Through every glen, a cry is cast;
“We are a nation – free at last!”

No longer ruled by distant hand,
We claim our voice; we stake our stand.
From Bannockburn to present day’
The will for freedom finds its way.

The pound may shake, the oil may dry,
But still our hope will not deny.
For richer far than vaults of gold
Are rights no outsider should hold.

A parliament, yet not the crown,
Still shackled while we lift the town.
Our children ask in modern tongue:
“Why must our fate be England ‘s song”

With Europe’s hand, with island grace,
We take our place, we find our space.
A Scottish dawn, fierce, unafraid,
In truth and trust, our future’s made.