| I saw a blue umbrella in Princes Street Gardens
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| Heading out west for the Lothian Road
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| An Evening News stuffed deep in his pocket
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| Wrapped up in his problems to keep away the cold
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| Grierson’s spirit haunts the dockyards
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| Where the only men working are on
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| Documentary crews
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| Shooting film as the lines get longer
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| As the seams run out, as the oil runs dry
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| Chorus: Hey there laddie, Internal Exile!
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| When will you realise we’ve got to let go?
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| Hey there lassie, Internal Exile!
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| When will you realise we’ve got to let go?
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| Starlings wheeling round Georgian spires
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| And the fires of Grangemouth burn the skies
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| A lion sleeps in a tenement close
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| In a country that’s tired and deaf to his roar
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| They bury a wasteland deep in the wilderness
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| Poison the soil and reap the harvest
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| Of blind indifference, greed and apathy
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| Sowed way back in our history
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| The fish are few the harbours empty
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| The keels now rot on our oil slicked shores
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| The sheep are gone, the farms deserted
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| We’re out of sight and we’re out of mind
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| Like our fathers before us
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| We’ve eyes for America
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| Dream of a new life on foreign shores
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| But wherever we go, we’ll always know
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| That the land we stand on, is never our own |