The Scottish Prince

Every summer, I visit the Scottish Prince at his castle high on a hill outside Crieff. We dine on haggis and tatties and neeps - I drink water with mine and the Prince sips at a peaty peppery dram. Then it's time for the dance. O Scottish Prince, the heathery air sweetens the night. Bats hang upside down in the pines like lamps waiting for light. Ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes. All the girls are in dresses. The boys are in kilts, but no boy's so fine as the Prince in his tartan pleats. I wait for a glance from the Prince, for the chance to prance or flounce by his side, to bounce hand in hand down the Gay Gordon line. Och, the pleasure's a' mine! O Scottish Prince, the heathery air sweetens the night. Bats hang upside down in the pines like lamps waiting for light. Ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes. At the end of summer, I say goodbye to the Scottish Prince and catch a train to the South, over the border, the other side of the purple hills, far from the blue and white flag, waving farewell from the castle roof. The Prince will expect me back again next year - here's a sprig of heather pressed in my hand as proof. O Scottish Prince, the heathery air sweetens the night. Bats hang upside down in the pines like lamps waiting for light. Ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes. Ask me, ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes.