Oh the Dean o' Westminster wis a powerful man,
He held a' the strings o' the state in his hand.
But with a' this great business it flustered him nane,
Till some rogues ran away wi' his wee ma-gic stane."

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

Noo the stane had great pow'rs that could dae such a thing
And withoot it, it seemed, we'd be wantin' a king,
So he called in the polis and gave this decree;
"Go an' hunt oot the Stane and return it tae me."

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

So the polis went beetlin' up tae the North
They huntit the Clyde and they huntit' the Forth
But the wild folk up yonder jist kiddit them a'
Fur they didnae believe it wis magic at a'.

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

Noo the Provost o' Glesga, Sir Victor by name,
Was awfy pit oot when he heard o' the Stane
So he offered the statues that staun in the Square
That the high churches' masons might mak a few mair.

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

When the Dean o' Westminster wi' this was acquaint,
He sent for Sir Victor and made him a saint,
"Now it's no use you sending your statues down heah"
Said the Dean, "But you've given me a jolly good ideah."

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

So he quarried a stane o' the very same stuff
An' he dressed it a' up till it looked like enough
Then he sent for the Press and announced that the Stane
Had been found and returned to Westminster again.

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

When the reivers found oot what Westminster had done,
They went aboot diggin' up stanes by the ton
And fur each wan they feenished they entered the claim
That this was the true and original stane.

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

Noo the cream o' the joke still remains tae be tellt,
Fur the bloke that was turnin' them aff on the belt
At the peak o' production was so sorely pressed
That the real yin got bunged in alang wi' the rest.

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.

So if ever ye come on a stane wi' a ring
Jist sit yersel' doon and appoint yersel King
Fur there's nane wud be able to challenge yir claim
That ye'd croont yersel King on the Destiny Stane.

Wi' a too-ra-li-oor-a-li-oor-a-li-ay.