The Yanks call her a rutabaga
The Sassenachs a swede wad make her
But a' true Scots fer neep will take her
And ne'er fer sprouts or greens forsake her.
The tricolor of which I sing
Is not the flag the French would fling
But one part grey, another cream
An orange third that lends its steam
To join and mak' the perfect dream
And so complete a true Scots team.
To haggis beeled, wi' tatties mashed
Come humble neeps to be a' bashed.