She’s the welder on the Clyde,
The farmer on the Merse;
She’s the stag among the Trossachs;
The lamb in Gowrie’s Carse.
She’s the rippling Eddleston Water;
The Tay from side to side.
She’s the unemployed delinquent;
The toff in Morningside.

She is Lallans in the south,
Gaelic in the north;
She is Pictish, she is Briton,
She is Anglic, she is Norse;
She is Protestant and Catholic,
She is Muslim and Hindu;
She is Mormon, Hare Krsna,
Jehovah’s Witness, Wiccan, Jew.

She’s the old crone by the fireside;
The young girl come of age.
She’s the drunken ignoramus;
The wise and worldly sage.
She’s the independent woman,
On whom success is bound.
She’s a favourite family recipe,
From Mum to Daughter handed down.

She’s the engine’s steady thumping;
The computer’s gentle beep.
She’s the newborn babe in Mother’s arms;
The old man’s final sleep.
She’s the speeding, sleek, electric train;
The humble branch line station.
She is the affluence of George Street,
And social deprivation.

She is victory at Bannockburn;
She is Flodden’s bloody field.
She is Glasgow’s great metropolis,
And the farm at Lonelybield.
She is Edinburgh’s finery;
She is granite Aberdeen.
She is empty walled old cottages,
Where families once were seen.

She is fiercely independent;
She is timid, coy and shy.
She is many things to those who care;
And that’s the reason why,
My thoughts are with her every day;
Our hearts are both entwined;
She is beautiful, I love her;
She is Scotland, she is mine.

(17th August 2010)