SONGS.
THE JUBILEE.
Frae the Grampian hills will tho Royal ear hear it,
An’ listen to Norman the Shepherd’s plain tale,
The north wind is blawing, and gently will bear it
Unvarnish’d and honest, o’er hill and o’er dale;
When London it reaches, at court sure receive it,
Like a tale you may read it, or like a sang sing,
Poor Norman is easy, but you may believe it,
I m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.
Your Jubilee now wi’ my ain I will mingle,
For you and mysel’ twa fat lambkins I’ll slay;
Fresh turf I will lay in a heap on my ingle,
An wi' my auld neebors I’ll rant out the day.
My pipes that I play'd on lang syne, I will blaw them,
The chanter I ll teach to lilt over each spring,
My drones to the tune I’ll round an’ round thraw them,
I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.
The flocks o’ Great Britain ye’ve lang weel attended,
The flocks o’ Great Britain demanded your care,
Frae the tod an’ the wolf they’ve been snugly defended,
And let to fresh pastures, fresh water and air;
