Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Here's to the King, sir

Here's to the King, Sir,

Here's to the King, sir!Ye ken wha I mean, sir!And to every honest man. That will do't again.  Fill, fill your bumpers high;  Drain, drain your glasses dry;  Out upon him! fie! oh, fie!   That winna do't again.

Here's to the chieftainsOf the gallant Highland clans!They hae done it mair nor ance, And will do't again.        Fill, fill, &c.

When you hear the trumpet's soundTuttle taitie to the drums;Up wi' swords and down your guns, And to the loons again.         Fill, fill, &c.

Here's to the King o' Swede!Fresh laurels crown his head!Shame fa' every sneaking blade, That winna do't again!         Fill, fill, &c.

But to make a' things right, nowHe that drinks maun fight, too,To show his heart's upright, too, And that he'll do't again!         Fill, fill, &c.