7
And you who, on you bluidy braes,
Compell'd the vanquish'd foeman's praise,
Rank out—rank out—my gallant greys—
Carle, now the King's come.
Cock of the North, my Huntly bra',
Where are you with my Forty-twa?
Ah! waes my heart that ye're awa—
Carle now the King's come.
But yonder comes my canty Celts,
With durk and pistol at their belts,
Thank God, we've still some plaids and kilts—
Carle, now the King's come.
Come, cock your cap each Archer spark,
For you're to guard, him light and dark;
Faith, lads, I trow ye've hit the mark—
Carle, now the King's come.
Young Errol take the sword of stale,
The sceptre Paviemorarchate;
Knight Mareschals, see ye clear the gate—
Carle, now the King's come.
Kind Cummer, Leith, ye've been mis-set,
But dinna be upon the fret—
Ye'se get the handsel of him yet,
Carle, now the King's come.
