3
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,
