A canny wee Scotsman called Sammy MacNabbitt,
Was possessed of an odd an' peculiar habit.
He'd sit on the roof of his wee Scottish hoose,
An' sing all day long 'til the tiles rattled loose.
In MacNabbitt tartan, he'd start every mornin'
In kilt an' in sporran as daylight was dawnin',
With beret on head an' bagpipes in hand,
He'd sing an' he'd play like a wee Celtic band,
An' he'd dance to the skirl of his bagpiping lilt
With the whirl of a wee Scottish breeze up his kilt.
Now Mrs MacNabbit did not have a hunch
That he'd slip on the haggis she'd packed him for lunch,
An' Sammy MacNabbit fell kilt over head,
An' just for a while it was feart he was dead.
It's not a good thing to step on your meal
While playing the bagpipes an' dancin' a reel.
An' it's not very pleasant at all I suppose,
With a great haggis sandwich stuck well up your nose,
An' to judge by his screams, I very much doubt
That the pleasure improved as the stuff was scraped out.
So Sam does nae sing on the roof any more
An' considers it wiser to stay on the floor.
An' is he still singing? - och aye so he is,
He's the top o' the charts in the radio biz,
A star of the air and for your information
He's a disc jockey noo at a radio station,
He sings to the music as only he can
An' he's known to the world as Sing-along-Sam.
An' he sings o' the heather, he sings o' the glen.
O' bonnie wee lassies an' brave Scottish men.
O' the moors an' the lochs, an' yon bonnie braes,
O' the mists, o' the highlands an' Scotland the brave
He'll sing o' the bluebells that blossom galore,
But he will nae eat haggis for lunch any more.