As the drums and pipes played Tribal King we stood our ground.  We the fresh and young troops of our King stood and watched the foolish French below.  For today we have been told it shall end here, end today. 

The shout goes up and down the line, "Form right."  

Our old man paced to the front, proud of his lads.  Stopping here and there to tap a shoulder, a word of courage to his green boys.  For he knew way too many would never see the coming evening.

The thunder of French hoofs brought all eyes forward.  As the old man drew his sword, and his voice loud and clear barked the order.  "Form square and send the French to hell."  

The drums and pipes played on, as we waited for the coming French storm.  Blue wave after blue wave broke against our red wall.  Through the smoke and cries of dying men and horses, we took it all. 

To the left and to the right friend did fall to be replaced once again.  In the centre, the old man and his pipes and drums played on, Tribal King. 

Never was I so proud to be a Scot, fighting for my King that day, June 18th, 1815.