S comes from Scotland, the land of the cake.
He's a braw little laddie a soldier to make.
And the sound of his bagpipes will draw us all forth,
When he comes marching south to the "Cock of the North."
T 's a Tasmanian. The land where she dwells
Is as full of ripe fruit as the sea's full of shells.
It was once a dark prison, but now it's all free,