Sir Patrick Spence

Our good King sits in Windsor tower,

The sun beams glint sae cheerfu',

A birdie sang in yonder bower,

And O! but it sang fearfu'!

Tell me, my bird, my mourning bird,

What is't you sing so dreary?

I sing o' danger, fire and sword,

Fell faes are coming near ye!

The King look'd frae his castle hie,

His look was blythe and airy,

There's no a foe dares face the sea,

Brave England's tars are there ay;

The birdie sang upon the thorn,

But now its sang grew cheerfu',

Good King we'll laugh your faes to scorn,

There's nought I see to fear now.

The birdie flew on blythesome wing!

And O but it sang rarely!

And ay it sang, God bless our King!

Bauld Britons love him dearly.

It flew o'er hill, it flew o'er lea,

It sang o'er moor and heather,

Till it cam to the North Countrie,

Whare a' sang blythe thegither.

They sang o' fame, and martial might,

(The pride o' Scottish story;)

They sang o' Edward's wars, and flight,

And Bruce's radiant glory!

They laugh'd at Gallia's threaten'd ills,

Their shield was Patriot-honour!

They rush'd down Freedom's heath-flow'rd hills,

And rattling join'd her banner!