O ye wha here.
[Written by George Robertson, and sung at the celebration of St. Andrew in the city of Savannah in 1825.]
Oh! ye wha here, wi' cheerfu' glee,
Around the festal board unite;
Whilst happy moments tip-toe flee
And smile upon the joyous night.
Let's drink our drap o' barley bree,
Though moon and stars should blink thegither,
To each leal lad wi' kilted knee,
And bonnie lass amang the heather.
Sons o' the Gael! wha ne'er ha'e bent
The knee to fawn on frien' or foe,
Whose heart's best bluid was ever spent
In freedom's cause, through weal and woe.
Let's drink our drap, &e.
The Roman eagle ne'er could reach
The heath-crown'd mountains o' the free;
And England's lion backward turn'd
Wi' bluidy mane and sunken e'e.
Then let us drink, &c.
O' days lang syne, let history tell
Now broad claymore and gleaming brand
In cow'ring tyrants vengefu' fell,
How triumph'd that immortal band.
Then let us drink, &c.
Frae pole to pole, frae sea to sea;
Scotia! to thee the meed is paid,
The brave example take by thee,
And beauty nestles in the plaid.
Then here's a health in barley bree, &c.
And here's to a' wha keep this day,
And here's to a' wha drink this night,
And here's to them that's far awa',
And muckle joy and pure delight.
A bumper fill wi' barley bree, &c.
Though seas atween us roll and rave,
Still friendship's bonds our hearts entwine,
Then here's ourselves and a' the lave,
Whom charity and love combine.
A health to a' in barley bree,
Oursel's and a' the warld thegither,
To a' wha love the kilted knee,
Or bonnie lasses in the heather.