The old story rises in the morning light, Running through the heather like a flame in flight, Carrying the breath of centuries across the glen, Whispering the truth that never broke, never bent. Arbroath’s words echo with steady hands, Carried by the quiet souls who guarded these lands , Keeping the language and the memory alive, Proving a nation doesn’t fade it survives. And the chorus lifts like a lion set free, The old story waking, calling you and me Not a relic of yesterday turning to dust, But Scotland rising again because rise it must. The old story shines like Highland sun Not old at all only just begun.
