Fifty years shepherd, and fifty a king/Fifty years shepherd, and fifty a king

SONGS.

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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;
My flocks I have led day by day o’er the heather,
⁠At night they around me ha’e danc’d in a ring,
I’ve been their protector thro’ foul and fair weather,
⁠I m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.

Their fleeces I’ve shorn, frae the cauld to protect me,
⁠Their fleeces they gave when a burden they grew;
When leas’d frae the sheeting their looks did respect me,
⁠So the flocks o’ Great Britain still look upon you;
They grudge not their monarch a mite o’ their riches,
⁠Their active industry is ay on the wing;
Then you and me, Sire, I think are twa matches,
⁠I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.

Me wi’ my sheep, Sire, and you wi’ your subjects,
⁠On that festive day we’ll both gladly rejoice;
Our twa hoary heads will be fu’ o’ new projects,
⁠To please the leal vassals that made us their choice!
Wi' sweet rips o’ hay I will treat a’ my wethers,
⁠The juice o’ the vine to your lords you will bring,
The respect they ha’e for us is better than brother’s,
⁠I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.

My crook I will dress in the relies o’ summer,
⁠My faithfu’ auld Colly shall hail that blithe morn,
And to my wee cabin I’ll welcome each comer,
⁠The friend that hath plenty, and stranger forlorn;
You’ll sure do the same tho’ nobody broach it,
⁠You’ve plenty of beef, butter, lobsters, and ling,
And rowth o’ Musicians to strike up the crotchet,

⁠I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.

I live i' the cottage where Norval was bred in,
⁠You live in the palace your ancestors rear’d,
Nae guests uninvited dare come to our weddin’,
⁠Nor ruthless invader pluck us by the beard;
Then thanks to the island we live in, where shipping
⁠Skim round us abreast, or like geese in a string,
Then safe I can say, as my brose I am sipping,
⁠I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King,

But ah! Royal George, and ah! humble Norman,
⁠Life to us baith draws near to a close;
The year's far awa that was our natal hour, man,
⁠Tho time's at our elbow that brings us repose;
But e'en let it come, sirs, if conscience acquit us,
⁠A sigh frae our bosom death never shall wring,
An' may the next Jubilee, amang angels meet us,
⁠So hail the auld Shopherd, and worthy auld King.

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