We hae the crown without a head,
The sceptre's but a hand, O;
The ancient warlike royal blade,
Might be a willow wand, O!
Gin they had tongues to tell the wrangs
That laid them useless by, a',
Fu' weel I wot, there's ne'er a Scot
Could boast his cheek was dry, a'.

Then flourish, thistle, flourish fair,
Tho' ye've the crown na langer,
They'll hae the skaith that cross ye yet,
Your jags grow aye the stranger.

O for a touch o' warlock's wand,
The byegane back to bring a',
And gi'e us ae lang simmer's day
O' a true-born Scottish king a'!
We'd put the crown upon his head,
The sceptre in his hand a',
We'd rend the welkin wi' the shout,
Bruce and his native land, a'.

Then flourish, thistle, flourish fair,
Tho' ye've the crown na langer,
They'll hae the skaith that cross ye yet,
Your jags grow aye the stranger.

The thistle ance it flourish'd fair,
An' grew maist like a tree a',
They've stunted down its stately tap,
That roses might luik hie a'.
But though its head lies in the dust,
The root is stout and steady;
The thistle is the warrior yet,
The rose its tocher'd leddy.

Then flourish, thistle, flourish fair,
Tho' ye've the crown na langer,
They'll hae the skaith that cross ye yet,
Your jags grow aye the stranger.

The rose it blooms in safter soil,
And strangers up could root it;
Aboon the grund he ne'er was fand
That pu'd the thistle oot yet.

Then flourish, thistle, flourish fair,
Tho' ye've the crown na langer,
They'll hae the skaith that cross ye yet,
Your jags grow aye the stranger.