Irn-Bru

Each wee burst brings dancing memories
Slapping the tongue like a claymore.
Behind clear sheath yer honey lies;
Five hundred teasing calories.
 
Behind yer cage, I love ye more.
Like a blacksmith loves his anvil.
A taste sae pure as yer father’s ore,
The burn behind wir lion’s roar.
 
A sacrilege it is tae spill
A drop ae yer liquid gold.
A night in toon tae drink and thrill,
Then yer medicine becomes wir pill.
 
Now laddies young and lassies auld
Will pay ye twice yer due.
When in the sun ye aye stay cauld,
A story without ye is best untold.
 
A love for ye sae pure and true,
As God gave  gid grace tae Alba.
Without ye, who kens what we’d do?
The blood ae a nation, wir Irn-Bru.