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Auld Scotland’s doughty barons prest
Their blades that lang had lain at rest,
And marshall’d up the Royal Guest—
Whilst trumpet soun’, and pibroch croon.
Were like to droon the lift aboon,
Frae Forth unto the Tay, man !
The Highlan’ clans, in tartan sheen. Were buskit unco braw, man; Hersel’, for plume, had heather bloom, And “ Scotland’s flower” and a’ man. Auld Reekie fidgin’ sat aboon, And sent her sons in thousands doun. To welcome Geordie to her toun— And say, “ Though foes shou’d pu’ his rose, He'd aye get brose, and ne’er should lose Her for his hame and a’, man !”
Then doun to ancient Holyrood, Wha hail’d the happy day, man, They’ve ta’en the King, whare lang had stood Auld Scotland’s regal sway, man— Although her hearth has lang been cauld, And wa’s and roof are growan auld, A blink o’ him has made her bauld— A Royal Court— a gay resort— Whare kingly sport—and a’ that sort O’ doffin’s night and day, man !
Lang life unto our lawfu’ King, We’ll aye his rights maintain, man,
