Roch the wind in the clear days dawin
Blows the cloods heelstre-gowdie ow'r the bay
But there's mair nor a roch wind blawin
Through the great glen o' the warld the day.
It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans
A' they rogues that gang gallus, fresh and gay
Tak the road, and seek ither loanins
For their ill ploys, tae sport and play.
Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw
Nor wee weans frae pit-heid and clachan
Mourn the ships sailing doon the Broomielaw,
Broken faimlies in lands we've herriet
Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair;
Back and white, ane ti ither mairriet,
Mak the vile barracks o' thier maisters bare.
O come all ye at hame wi' Freedom,
Never heid whit the hoodies croak for doom.
In your hoose a' the bairnes o' Adam
Can find breid, barley-bree and painted room.
When Maclean meets wi's friens in Springburn,
A' the roses and geens will turn tae bloom,
And a black boy frae yont Nyanga
Dings the fell gallows o' the burghers doon.

Its an English dialect, its pretty much Lallans.